Fortune Favour Me
by WhitethornWolf
Summary: A collection of one-shots, set during the Fifth Blight. Cousland/Alistair.
1. What Could Have Been

Sweat, blood and smoke - the air was thick with the stench of it, and heat rolled over her in waves as she parried and thrust. Her blade rose and fell in bright flashes, and the sounds of battle roared in her ears.

Don't stop, she chanted to herself as her sword caught a soldier in the throat. Don't stop, don't stop, don't falter. Keep your blade steady and your focus in the now.

It was fury that leant her strength; whatever reserves of energy she had were long gone. The soldiers were endless. Howe must have poured the better part of his force into taking the castle, and to what end? Father was missing, and so was the Grey Warden. Mother was faltering. And Eilin...no, she had to keep going, she could not let doubt take hold.

Eleanor felled the last man with an arrow in the throat and bent over, gasping for air. Her braids were askew and blood smeared across her nose - a sight that would have been amusing if the situation hadn't been so dire.

"Here, lean on me," Eilin said, and put an arm around her shoulder. The hall was a mess, corpses strewn in every direction, and blood splattered the walls and carpet. Her father's men were using the heavy furniture to barricade the main doors, and she caught the outline of a few books piled in the roaring fire.

They're just books, she reminded herself, and tried not to cringe at the sight.

Ser Gilmore was standing in the middle of the hall giving commands. His splintmail was covered in filth, and there was blood matted in his hair. But he was otherwise unharmed, and she felt no small measure of relief at that.

"Go!" he snapped at one of the soldiers, as Eilin helped her mother over to him. "Man the gate. Keep those bastards out as long as you can!"

"Rory," Eilin said weakly, her smile turned into a grimace. "Good to see you in one piece."

"Maker's breath!" He was suddenly at her side, taking Eleanor's weight on his own arm. "Your Ladyship, are you alright? Did Howe's men get through?"

"They did." Eilin wiped her face on an already dirty sleeve, scrubbing hard to get the spatters of half-dried blood off her cheeks. "Are you alright?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm just glad to see you both mostly unharmed."

"I'm fine," Eleanor said, and allowed herself to be seated next to a makeshift barrier. "I can't say the same for Eilin."

"Oh, I'll live," Eilin said cheerily. She straightened up and hissed through her teeth as her left arm dropped, and Rory gave her a withering look. "What?"

Without waiting for permission, he reached over and peeled the collar of her shirt from her left shoulder.

"I got stabbed," Eilin muttered, ignoring her mother's horrified gasp. "I wasn't quick enough, and the soldier pulled a feint on me. Cenred would have thrashed my hide if he'd seen it." She jerked as the knight's fingers brushed the angry red and purple flesh underneath her collarbone, and he murmured an apology.

Eleanor touched Eilin's cheek. "Oh, darling. Why didn't you say something?"

"This is a deep wound, and it's not going to stop bleeding," Rory said. "I need to bandage it."

"Oh, no." Eilin shook her head vigorously, pushing his hand away. "No, we need to go. We don't have time for this."

She recognised that look in the knight's eye; that damn stubborn streak that frustrated her to no end, and she had to struggle to rein in her temper.

"We've barred the doors." He gestured to the main doors as he spoke, and it was all she could do not to stare at the guards. "It will buy us some time. Please, just let me take care of it."

Eilin sighed. "Fine. Do what you must, but do it quickly."

He drew her away from the guards and from her mother and seated her against the wall, where a few tables made a makeshift barricade and shielded her from view. A good thing, she thought, as he began to cut the shirt away from her wound. He seemed to realise seconds later, and actually blushed.

"I-uh-begging your pardon, but I will have to-"

"Go ahead."

She sat quietly while he tugged the material over her shoulders and tried not to remember when Dairren had done the same, only hours before.

Her shirt was stuck to the wound by drying blood and pulling the material free hurt like blazes. Eilin endured, clenching her fists in her lap until her knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," he said as he worked. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Could be worse." She gave him a smile that turned into a grimace as he trickled water over her shoulder. "I could be dead."

"That won't happen any time soon, Maker willing. You know I wouldn't let any harm come to you."

Eilin flashed him an annoyed glance, but said nothing. She knew how Rory was, after five years of friendship, and it was pointless to say anything.

"I barred the gates when I realised what was happening," he said as he worked. "They won't keep the soldiers out for long."

"Have you seen Bryce?" the Teyrna asked. She was standing with her back to them, re-braiding her hair.

"Yes. He's been badly wounded."

Eilin grabbed his arm, her face whitening as the movement jolted her shoulder.

"Where did he go?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"To the kitchens. He thought to find you at the servants' exit." Rory tied the makeshift bandage on Eilin's shoulder, and offered her a rumpled shirt. "He said he would wait for you there."

"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," Eleanor said as Eilin pulled on the spare shirt. "Come, darling. We must make haste."

Eilin shook her head, and pulled away when her mother touched her arm. "I'll help Rory hold the gates."

"They won't hold!" Rory replied. There was an edge to his voice, and he'd dropped his usual polite tone. "It will only delay the inevitable. Please, escape while you have the chance."

Eleanor was already moving towards the door, raising her bow. Dannar followed her, whining.

"Come, darling!" she called. "We need to go. Now!"

Eilin did not move.

"Eilin!" Eleanor said.

Eilin closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

"I can't leave you," she said, hating the way her voice sounded, hoarse and cracked and weary.

He reached for her, and she caught his hand and brought it to her lips.

"Eilin," he said affectionately, and stroked the matted tangles of hair back from her face. "Kill some soldiers for me, eh?"

Her answering laugh turned into a sob. There was far too much unsaid - their whole friendship had been defined by words held back and long silences. But her mother was hovering, and shouts of the soldiers sounded through the main doors. So she drew away.

"Maker watch over you," Rory said, and Eilin turned away so he couldn't see her face.


	2. Flight

_It is assumed here that you have played the Human Noble origin and know of what happened to your Cousland PC._

_Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence_

* * *

><p><strong>Flight<strong>

"_Run!"_

Dirt and sand scattered in every direction as Eilin bolted, galvanized by the Grey Warden's shout.

Dannar was on her heels as she dived into the field of grass surrounding the castle. The wind flung the soldiers' cries into the night air, mingling with the crackle of the flames blackening the walls of her family home. Eilin barely heard anything, so focused was she on her own panicked breaths and the thrum of blood in her ears.

A dark blur flashed in her peripheral vision-the Grey Warden Duncan, who shouted something at her. She caught the word 'hills' and nodded at him. The only hills within two miles were the borderlands of the West Hill bannorn, a few hours' walk west. Or run, which seemed more likely at the moment.

Duncan surged ahead and grimly she followed the disjointed path he cut across the field.

Well, it wasn't _really_ a field-more like a short expanse of grass that framed the cliffs on which Highever Castle perched. Still, it always seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, even though Eilin knew it ended sharply at a small forest that separated Highever from West Hill.

As a child she used to get lost in here, and she would run through the grass until her legs ached and her heart felt like it would burst. If she _really_ pushed herself she would reach the forest in five or ten minutes. In her youth she never dared go farther than that first line of trees-and later in her adolescence she learned that lesson again, the hard way.

So she would stop where the hill sloped sharply and stare into the trees. And inevitably her aging nursemaid would catch up to her and burn her ears with a lecture of how dangerous it was to run off like that.

If only Mira could see her now.

Sand and dirt gave way to rough stone and Eilin pushed herself harder. Violent gasps stole the breath from her lungs and her eyes streamed from the harsh wind. The pulsing in her ears grew louder and drowned out everything but her racing heartbeat, the gasping of the Grey Warden beside her and the vague sound of Dannar's paws pounding at a steady pace.

The soldiers were catching up.

A line of trees appeared in Eilin's vision and she almost sobbed in sheer relief. Then there was a shout of triumph, and that brief flash of hope dropped into the pit of her stomach. At the same time an arrow whistled past her ear, its feathers grazing her cheek.

Suddenly Dannar whirled, paws skidding on the rough ground, and charged straight at a dark shape Eilin assumed was the attacking archer. She began to slow down, but Duncan grabbed her arm and shook his head. "Don't stop!"

But it was too late. There was another shout and three more shapes appeared out of the darkness, though all Eilin could see was moonlight gleaming on steel and chainmail.

Duncan turned and drew his sword in one smooth motion. The soldier bearing down on him met his raised blade with a ring of steel on silverite.

That left two soldiers for Eilin. She dropped into a guard position, ignoring the burning of her muscles.

There was a silence that echoed oddly in her ears. The soldiers stared at her. The light was poor, but she saw enough.

They were afraid of her. As they should be.

"Come on, you spineless bastards!" she taunted them. "Are you afraid of me?"

One soldier seemed to hesitate, then suddenly rushed forward with a battle cry, swinging his sword in a wide, clumsy strike. Eilin took most of the strike on her blade, and when he over-balanced she knocked his sword aside and ran him through.

She kicked the dying man aside and turned to the last soldier. He was quaking visibly, his eyes wide at the sight of blood dripping down her sword.

He couldn't have been much older than her, and he was no soldier-that was obvious. He struck out at her clumsily, and she deflected the blow with ease. His footwork was sloppy and his defense imperfect.

He could have been Oren, if Oren had been but a few years older. That alone would have stayed her hand out of pity if nothing else-but boys armed with swords were still armed, and as dangerous as an experienced veteran if you allowed their youth to get the better of you.

Eilin was no veteran, but she had a few good years of sword training behind her, and she easily outmatched the boy. In two quick strikes she got past his defense, and with a hard strike with her pommel she had him.

"We don't have time for this," Duncan said as the boy writhed on the ground, sobbing and spitting blood and broken teeth. "There are more soldiers on the way."

Eilin looked at him over her shoulder and saw Dannar was at his side, his muzzle red with blood. The hound cocked his head to one side and whined petulantly.

She pinned the boy with her boot, even as he struggled to get up, squinting at her in the poor light.

"No-_please_-"

Eilin drove her blade home and stared as the boy's life fled in gurgles and rattling breaths, feeling sick and sad and empty.

"Let's go," said Duncan.

She followed him into the trees, where the darkness swallowed them.


	3. Loss

_With passion'd breath does the darkness creep._

_It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep._

**-Transfigurations 1:5**

One of the first things Duncan taught her on their way to Ostagar was how to take stock of her surroundings - to use all her senses to her advantage; to see beyond what the eye tells you. She'd never thought about it in great detail - seeing beyond seeing was an odd way to put it, but it made a certain kind of sense.

The first thing she realised when she awoke, even before opening her eyes, was that she was no longer in the Tower of Ishal.

The tower had been wet and freezing; icy rain that plastered her hair to her face, and winds that cut right through her. This place was dry, moderately warm and smelled strange; leather, wildflowers and a scent she couldn't quite place, somewhat similar to the smell of the air before the rain.

It was daylight; the light glowed through her eyelids and made her wince as she opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the sudden change. Her eyes felt heavy, like she'd been asleep for a long time.

She knew she wasn't in the Tower, but the bed surprised her - a soft mattress instead of a rough bedroll, and sheets that scraped against bare skin and bandages. Her chest was swathed in them, and her leg too; she felt the dull ache of pulled muscles and open wounds, and a headache wasn't too far behind that.

"Ah, you are awake. Mother will be pleased."

Pain stabbed through her right shoulder and arm as Eilin rubbed her eyes, and she hissed through her teeth. The sudden movement made the sheets slip, and she clutched them to her chest, blinking like a startled owl.

The house - if you could call it that - was tiny and cluttered, and there was a large bookcase on one wall overflowing with all sorts of texts. Some looked ancient, and the history lover in her wanted immediately to look at them. There were more pressing matters at hand, however; like the woman standing by the bed.

"There is no use for modesty here," said the woman, and sat down. She looked familiar - it was a few moments before Eilin recognised the woman they'd met in the Korcari Wilds before the battle. _Morrigan_, she said her name was. But why...?

Morrigan pushed her rather unceremoniously until she was leaning back, then began to untie the bandages on her right shoulder.

She'd taken an arrow there, Eilin remembered. It was the last thing she recalled before she...they'd been overwhelmed by darkspawn, that she remembered. She fingered the bandages unconsciously, and the witch knocked her hand away with an impatient snort.

"Lie still while I change your dressings," she said. "Some of your wounds infected, and you have been ill for some time."

"How long?" Eilin asked, and made to sit up. "Where am I, exactly? What happened to the battle?"

"Perhaps a week or two, even with Mother's healing magic," Morrigan replied. She began to apply salve to the wound. Her touch was not gentle, but Eilin clenched her fingers in the sheets and endured. "The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. Those he abandoned were massacred."

"I - what?"

Eilin sat back against the pillows, barely flinching as the woman's nails caught on a bruise, and wondered vaguely if this was all just a dream. Maybe she'd wake up in the Tower, embarrassed at her injuries, or in the infirmary in camp. Or she might not wake at all; it should have frightened her how little she cared about that particular outcome.

It was never an easy thing to hear of a hero who did a terrible deed, and even then her mind raced to find some explanation or meaning behind it. But instead she said faintly,

"Massacred?"

"To a man." There was no pity in Morrigan's voice as she peeled off the rest of the bandages. "The darkspawn left none alive, as far as I could tell. If anyone survived they are long gone now."

"And what of the king?" Eilin asked, dreading the answer. "Duncan? The rest of the Grey Wardens?"

"All dead. Your friend is not taking it well." Morrigan inspected the stab wound on Eilin's left shoulder. "This one is almost healed, though you will have a rather unsightly scar."

"My friend?" Eilin repeated. She felt sluggish and stupid. Apparently Morrigan thought so as well, for she raised a questioning eyebrow before replying.

"The suspicious, dim-witted one that was with you earlier. You were both injured.

Mother rescued you…I'm surprised you don't remember."

She knew Morrigan meant Alistair, and at that Eilin felt no small measure of relief. She wasn't alone after all.

But the others...

Duncan, who had saved her life, and who was kinder to her than she'd ever expected. The other Wardens...people like her, some of whom she'd never met. And Cailan.

"All of your belongings are by the bed," Morrigan said, when she'd tied the last knot on her bandages. "Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

Her clothes and armour were in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. Her shirt had even been mended, and her weapons were there.

"Why did your mother rescue me?" Eilin asked as she dressed hurriedly.

"I wonder that myself, though Mother rarely tells me anything." Morrigan shrugged. "I would have rescued your king. He would have been worth a higher ransom."

King Cailan was dead. The enormity of that was hard to take in, and she had to close her eyes. If the king was dead, and Duncan as well...that meant a large chunk of the army would have been wiped out. Massacred, Eilin thought, and swallowed hard. Had Fergus not been among them? Surely he had still been in the Wilds when the battle ended. If he had managed to get away, maybe she could find him, as improbable as that was.

"Come now," Morrigan said as she hung her head. "'Tis time you speak with Mother and be on your way."

Eilin drew a deep, shuddering breath and finished buckling up her breastplate.

"Thank you," she said.

"I..." the witch looked uncomfortable. "You are welcome, though I am no healer. Mother did most of the work."

There was nothing else to say to that, so Eilin pulled open the door of the hut and stepped outside.

The sky was murky; an unpleasant greenish-yellow colour that made it hard to see, and the smell of rotting foliage turned her stomach.

Eilin's gaze went immediately to the familiar figure standing on the edge of the swamp, and the relief nearly overwhelmed her.

"Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

Flemeth sat outside the hut in a chair half-concealed in shadows, and Eilin tried to force her heart to stop pounding from the sudden sound of her voice. The witch unnerved her - and so she should, Eilin reminded herself, Flemeth was something powerful and ancient, and she didn't have to know anything about magic to know that.

Alistair turned wearily when Flemeth spoke, and the look on his face made her chest tighten painfully. He looked as helpless as she felt, so she went to him. He wasn't her brother, and she wasn't Duncan, but they weren't alone. That had to count for something, at least.


	4. Confessions

"So apparently, a Blight is the best time to start killing each other. Marvelous."

They'd barely left the chantry and already Morrigan had started with the remarks.

"A Blight is the best time for many things, don't you know?" Eilin said, a little too cheerfully.

The clearing outside the building was crowded with the militia, a ragtag group of boys and men better suited to spearing fish than monsters, and they stared suspiciously at her and her companions. "An insurrection - a civil war - silly to think people would actually focus on the darkspawn. No, it's all poisoned blades and deception all around."

"Oh, yes." Morrigan's tone dripped with cynicism. "Curious you should mention deception."

"Deception implies I've been keeping secrets from you," Eilin said coolly, raising her eyebrows. "No-one asked me about my background, if you'll recall. I didn't think it mattered."

"It hardly concerns me. You keep your own secrets, as do we all."

Shrugging, she turned away. Morrigan might not have cared, but the others would. It hadn't even occurred to her that Bann Teagan might recognise her from the wreck she'd been on her first visit. She barely remembered the place, sick with grief and lingering fever, hovering in Duncan's shadow and wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. What was more embarrassing - the fact that Teagan recognised her, or the fact that he'd announced her title and birthright in front of everyone in the whole damn chantry?

_No, that isn't fair_, she told herself. It wasn't his fault she hadn't told anyone.

Redcliffe wasn't a large town by any means, and most of its residents would be barricaded in the chantry come nightfall. There were a handful of men and women who'd volunteered to bear arms, and Eilin sent the others to convince more. By the noise and bustle below, they'd succeeded. As her companions worked with the militia below, she and Alistair started up the path to the windmill to meet with Arl Eamon's knights.

They walked in tense silence, and she couldn't stop herself from casting him glances from time to time. He looked angry, she decided, brows drawn in a scowl the like of which she'd never seen on him, and he didn't look at her.

Finally she stopped and turned around, blocking the path ahead, and confronted him.

It was pretty easy to see he was angry, and her stuttered explanation only confused him.

_You'll have to be honest with him_. She grimaced at the thought, her stomach churning, and wrung her hands.

"There's no point in keeping it from you," she said in a rush. "What Bann Teagan said is true. My family name was Cousland."

She wasn't certain how thorough templar education was, not until she saw the recognition in his expression. He looked disappointed, though she couldn't figure out why exactly.

"Your family?" he asked tentatively, his frown somewhat less severe.

"All dead." She forced herself to meet his eyes. He looked stricken, and somehow that expression made her more determined to get it over with. "Murdered, actually."

"I- Eilin, I'm-"

"It was a friend of my father's," she interrupted. "The arl of Amaranthine. The night Duncan arrived in Highever, my brother left for Ostagar with the bulk of our forces, and he - Howe, his men infiltrated the castle." She gestured to the thick scar that ran the length of her forearm. "One of his men gave me this. He was the first man I ever killed."

His fingers closed around her wrist, lifting her arm so he could look at it closely.

"That's a pretty - well, it's, uh...quite a scar."

"Duncan and I barely escaped. I had to...leave my parents behind." Alistair's eyes locked on hers, his expression somewhat softened. "Please don't look at me like that. I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

The silence that followed stretched out just long enough to become awkward. Then his grip slid to her hand, pressing his fingers between hers.

"I don't know what to say," he said finally. "I-here I am going on about Duncan, and you...I am so sorry. Truly."

"You don't need to be sorry." She drew away and hugged herself around the middle, blinking until her eyes began to sting. "I should have told you. I guess I didn't because...well..."

He gave her a small smile. "Because people treat you differently?"

"Well, not quite. I mean yes, there's that, and I don't - I'm a Grey Warden now, I don't have any titles, and I'm not a lady anymore." She sighed. "The less people that know, the better. I have no doubt Howe knows I escaped, and is looking for me. So there's that, too." She gestured towards the path ahead. "We should get going. I'm sure Ser Perth is waiting for us."

Alistair didn't move.

"Why tell me, then?" he asked. "You didn't volunteer any of that information to the others. You palmed Morrigan off when she mentioned it, as I recall."

"Morrigan is here for her own reasons." This time it was she who closed the distance between them, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "We're here because we have a job to do, but I'd like to trust you with my secrets as well as my life." She shrugged. "And other than that, I guess I wanted to pretend like it happened to someone else, even if for a little while. A stupid sentiment, I suppose."

"Not stupid." He was smiling now, a little sheepishly, his hand warm under hers. "I wish my father had been someone else. It's never brought me anything but problems."

"Well, now we have something in common, see?" Grinning, she stepped back. "Friends have things in common. It's a start, isn't it?"

"A start?" he repeated, but she'd already turned away to take the path up to the windmill.


	5. Turmoil

After hours of fighting mindless corpses, finding a blood mage of all things in the dungeons, and fending off nameless horrors with little more than a handful of knights, Eilin had thought there was nothing stranger Redcliffe could throw her way.

Apparently not.

"Connor! Connor!"

Isolde's voice rose in pitch as she dropped to her knees beside her son. The boy was unconscious, a bruise already swelling at his temple.

It was the only way to stop the chaos that erupted in the main hall after she'd arrived, and she tried to ignore the guilt churning her stomach at the sight of Connor's pale face. It was better than taking a sword to him. She would avoid that outcome for as long as she could, but looking out over the hall and the carnage he had caused, it was looking more and more likely.

More guards arrived, and set to clearing the hall and removing the bodies of their fellows. Many were wounded, and some were dead - a loss Eilin felt as regret in the pit of her stomach. There was already too much death here; the entire castle stank with the smell of fear and blood, and the tingle of magic crawled over her skin.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Bann Teagan sitting with his head in his hands, and she went to him, waving away the servant who knelt by his side.

"How do you feel?" she murmured.

"Better...now that my mind is my own again."

Eilin pulled her dirk from its sheath.

"Relax," she said as he eyed her warily. "I'm not going to stab you."

"That's...comforting to know." He winced as she cut his tunic and began to peel the material away from his wounds. "How is Connor?"

"Lady Isolde tends to him."

"He is not - "

"He's not seriously injured," she interrupted. "He'll have a bruise or two, but nothing more." Her face was grim as she wiped her hands on a cloth, then began to apply a poultice to the wounds. Teagan was quiet, but she noticed the stiffness in his shoulders and did her best to be gentle.

"You're injured."

Eilin shrugged, grimacing when the movement sent twinges of pain through her. "It's nothing." She secured the bandages and helped him to his feet. "You'll want to see a healer about those injuries. I'm more used to patching people up on the run, as it were."

"You have my thanks," Teagan said, "but you really should have seen to your own hurts first. Or at least have my men treat you."

"I'm not made of porcelain," she replied through gritted teeth, then grimaced when his eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. It's not even my blood. Mostly."

Isolde approached them on the dais, wringing a handkerchief between her hands. She was pale, and her blonde hair curled in messy tendrils around her tear-streaked face.

"Teagan, oh-what a fool I've been."

_At least you and I can agree on something,_ Eilin thought, then immediately felt ashamed; this was no time to be petty. She stayed silent, soaking the cloths she'd used in a bowl of water the servant had left behind, and busying herself with cleaning the blood and elfroot paste off her hands.

"There must be a way to save Connor," Isolde said falteringly. "He's not responsible for this. He just wanted to help his father."

"So he made a deal with a demon?" EIlin interrupted, before she could stop herself. "Demons are dangerous and unpredictable, Lady Isolde. Even I know that. There is a reason children with magical talent are sent to the Circle - because this is what happens when you don't!"

"I…" Isolde's face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. "I just wanted to protect him."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Eilin stood up and cast a glance over the hall; at the pools of blood and the limping guards, and the moans of the wounded.

One boy and a deal with a demon had done this. She closed her eyes briefly and said a silent prayer for strength and wisdom. She was going to need both in abundance.


	6. Crisis Point

The Harrowing Chamber was vast and intimidating in its size and splendour, and there was a chill in the air that had little to do with the cold.

The tower had seemed like nothing more than a haven for mages, or so she'd thought up until she stepped foot in the place. Even then, she couldn't imagine abominations were the usual sort of folk you found lurking its halls.

It would have been intimidating to be brought here for your final test - the 'harrowing' Wynne had spoken of earlier. She tried to imagine herself as a young apprentice standing in the centre, tired and shivering and surrounded by templars. Men and women whose duty was to guard and protect - whether you or others, depending on the outcome.

Except it was no apprentice who stood in the chamber, and whatever templars had been here were long dead. In their place were abominations, flanking a single mage who stood with his arms thrown outwards, magic swirling in bright ribbons around him.

Eilin had long since run out of patience and tolerance for demons, and she'd have to be a fool not to realise exactly what this Uldred had become. She wasn't too surprised when he revealed his true form.

"Like an ogre, only with magic," Alistair said to her, as the pride demon's roars filled the chamber. "Because nothing could possibly go wrong with that."

"Eilin!"

She barely heard Wynne's shout over the roar of the demon, as preoccupied as she was with burying her sword as deep in its skull as possible, and Maker, was it hard. She pushed on the hilt of her sword with all her strength, boots slipping and sliding on its back. The demon was scaly and sinewy, and dark blood coated its skin where she'd stabbed it.

The demon roared, twisting wildly, and she hung on with grim determination.

Where were the others? She saw Wynne, staff pointed at the demon with magic streaming from her fingertips; and Leliana, blades flashing as she cut the throat of a nearby abomination. Dannar was tearing at the demon's legs; she caught flashes of his muzzle covered in red foam, and his snarls were familiar enough. But where was Alistair?

"Eilin-move! _Now!_"

She sprang backwards without hesitation, turning the leap into a somersault and landing neatly several feet away.

Then Wynne shouted a word, and the room lit up with electricity. The demon roared, shuddering and shaking, and the smell of burning flesh filled the chamber.

Eilin backed away hastily, almost tripping over her feet, and for a brief moment realised just why mages lived in a place like this.

Then it was over, and the demon's charred body toppled with a thud that shook the entire room.

She bent over, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath, and grimaced at the squelch of hands on her blood-soaked boot covers. It was in her hair and splattered all over her bodice, too-she probably looked a sight, and wondered if Alistair looked just as bad as she was.

Where was Alistair?

She retrieved her sword from the demon's body and took stock of the chamber. The room was covered with blood, bodies strewn everywhere - abominations, mages, and Uldred.

There was Leliana, cleaning her blades, and Wynne, helping the First Enchanter to his feet. Alistair wasn't anywhere to be seen, and by now he would have normally appeared, armour covered in blood, sweat-soaked hair, limping - but always with a smile.

Panic bubbled up in her throat, and she had to swallow hard to keep it from turning into nausea. Frantically she said, "Leliana!"

"Something I can help with?"

"Look for Alistair." Eilin kicked aside an abomination's body, and pointed across the chamber. "Search over there, and I'll look in this area."

"You don't think-"

"I don't know." She shook her head; if she let that thought take root, she'd never get it out of her mind. "Just...he might need some health poultices. Just look, alright?"

It was impossible to tell which mages were which; their twisted forms remained even in death, and it was eerie to walk amongst them. It didn't help that the chamber was silent, apart from the murmur of conversation between Wynne and Irving. Eyes darting between each corpse, she combed the chamber thoroughly, starting from where Uldred had fallen, and each body she overturned made her heart pound harder. She could feel him, the taint burning in her blood and making her skin crawl, but if she could only see where...

_I can't lose him._

The thought of that made sweat break out on her palms, and she clenched her fists tight, mouth set in a grim line. It had always been a possibility, ever since Flemeth rescued them from Ostagar. She knew that. She knew it, and it didn't make it any easier to face the reality of it.

There!

She skidded to a stop, turned, and bent over the crumpled figure she'd just passed. It was Alistair, alright - she couldn't miss the curve of his jaw and his battered old splintmail that was falling apart.

"Alistair," she breathed, and dropped to her knees beside him. He was out cold, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth, and a rent in his armour from which blood dripped slowly.

Still breathing. The relief almost overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes and swallowed hard, forcing herself to be calm.

"Wynne," she called, her voice cracking, and seconds later the old mage was there, bending over Alistair as he groaned low.

"Oh dear," Wynne said, and shook back her sleeves. She went to work with Eilin watching her quietly, hand against Alistair's cheek. The warmth of the healing magic washed over her, and she watched with fascination as the torn flesh began to knit together.

Alistair stirred and she leaned over him, watching his eyelids flutter and eventually open, blinking in the sudden influx of light.

"Urgh," he groaned, and rubbed his face. "Did we win?"

Eilin leaned over him, nails lightly scratching his cheek. "You could say so."

Shakily he touched her jaw. "Now there's a pretty sight."

"What?" she laughed. "Me covered in demon blood?"

He just grinned and ran a fingertip down her cheek. "Even covered in demon blood."

She closed her eyes and pushed his hand away. Her next breath shuddered in her throat.

"I'll check on Irving," Wynne said, and hurried away. Eilin silently thanked the Maker for mages and their keen sense of timing.

"Are you injured?" Alistair asked, and sat up gingerly. He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught in the matted tangles.

"No." Eilin grimaced as she sat back on her haunches. "Alright, the demon did get me in a few places."

"Me too." They both grinned at each other, but he still looked concerned. "I'm sure Wynne can -"

"It's fine," she said, and opened the pouch hanging from her belt. She pulled out a tiny flask and shook it, smiling. "Elfroot juice. I've been stockpiling."

"You are clever," Alistair said. "I couldn't do all this without you, you know."

"You know, I was just about to say the same thing." Eilin stripped off her glove and bent over her arm, low enough so that she didn't have to look at him. "When I was at Ostagar I was so...I didn't care, about anything or anyone, least of all myself. I could have died in the battle, and I wouldn't have cared. I might have even welcomed it."

"Eilin - "

"Just hear me out, you'll get your turn." Eilin shook a few drops of the juice over the graze on her arm and rubbed it with her free hand, grimacing at the ache and pull of the raw flesh. "It was easier not to care or feel, and I thought that was how it would be, all this time since we left the Wilds. But you happened."

"I don't understand."

Eilin shrugged, and returned the flask to her pouch. She wiped her hands on her tunic and finally looked him in the eye. He looked confused...was he really that oblivious to what she was saying, or was it her inability to explain? She had a feeling it was the latter.

"You make me laugh," she said finally, and shrugged, feeling a little lame. "I didn't laugh since Ostagar, not for the longest time. I felt...I don't know. Alone."

"Not alone!" Alistair said, so fiercely that she raised her eyebrows. "Never alone. You have me." He paused. "For as long as you want me, I mean."

"I do want you," Eilin said. Seconds later her blush caught up to her and she turned her face away with a mortified groan. "I didn't -"

"I know what you meant." There was barely contained laughter in his voice, and Eilin glared at him as she stood up.

"You're making fun of me," she muttered.

"Make fun of you, dear lady? Perish the thought." Alistair took her proffered hand and pulled himself upright. Together they collected their swords and began the walk across the chamber - or the limp, rather, for both of them were somewhat weary.

"I'm just not used to seeing you get flustered," he continued as they walked, him leaning on her a little heavily. "I'm usually the one blushing and stumbling all over my words."

"I'm not stumbling over my words." Eilin looked horrified. "Am I?"

That earned her a raised eyebrow and a confused shake of the head.

"Right. Well, just don't - don't do that again. Nearly get yourself killed, I mean. Alright? You scared me half to death."

"I'll do my best," Alistair said, very seriously. "You might want to have a word with Loghain, though."


	7. Consequences

"Got a minute?"

Bleary-eyed and exhausted, it took Eilin at least a few moments to realise it was Alistair who had appeared out of nowhere, and not a darkspawn. Guiltily she released her grip on her sword and tried not to look as tired as she felt. It might have worked, if keeping her eyes open wasn't such a struggle. Necessity kept her on first watch instead of Wynne - after the ritual at Redcliffe, the old mage was beyond anything not consisting of food and sleep.

"What?" she said without thinking. "Uh...sure. I have a few hours, in fact."

"Daydreaming, are we?" He sat down beside her, resting one arm on a bent knee, and she put the sword aside with an embarrassed flush. "Not that I blame you. Being on watch is boring." He took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I want to talk to you about what happened at Redcliffe."

"Go on."

Alistair stared out over the darkened camp for a few moments, drawing in a deep breath.

"I wanted to thank you," he said eventually. "You went out of your way to save the arl's family, even though it would have been easier not to. If it hadn't been for you, Connor wouldn't have come out of that easily. If at all."

"Using blood magic was not an option." Eilin drew her legs up to her chest and leaned her chin on her knees. "I never even considered it."

"And that's good to hear. Really. I'm glad we were able to save someone, at least." The last part was said with some bitterness. She didn't have to know Alistair well to realise he was thinking of Duncan.

"Connor is only a boy," she said, and rested her cheek on one knee. "He has his whole life ahead of him. And he will be safe at Kinloch Hold. He'll be able to learn magic without having to worry about demons anymore."

"Well, I suppose a life inside the Circle of Magi is better than no life at all." Alistair hesitated, as if he were going to continue, then shrugged. He plucked a blade of grass and began to pick it apart, dropping his gaze. Eilin hardly noticed the silence, lost in her own thoughts.

"My parents weren't the only ones Howe's men killed," she said eventually, tightening her grip on her knees. "My brother, he had a wife and a son. My nephew - Oren - he was only 10 years old."

Alistair looked up, twisting the grass in his hands, and frowned.

"I'll never teach him how to use a sword," Eilin said, swallowing against the painful twist of her gut. "He'll never be married, never hold his own child. How could I rob Connor of the chance to live too? Even if the life he has isn't what the arlessa wanted, it's still a life. He can still breathe the air and taste food; his mind is his own. He may even find some joy in the Circle, through his studies...through a lover." The lump in her throat grew, and she grimaced at the shake of her own voice. "We are so quick to throw away lives, without thinking of how much it costs us in the end."

_Live, darling. Become a Grey Warden and do what is right._

Eilin pushed away the memories fiercely; regret was bitter enough to swallow without the shadow of grief over her as well.

The tears came thick and fast then; mortified, she turned her face away and scrubbed her cheeks furiously with her sleeves, praying fervently to the Maker that Alistair hadn't seen them.

"Eilin."

"Please don't." Her voice was barely a gasp, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding back sobs. "I'm just tired, I -"

"It's alright," Alistair murmured, and drew her against him.

It wasn't something she needed, or something she was looking for, but it was nice to believe he understood. And after what happened at Kinloch Hold, it wasn't so inappropriate anymore.

"Thanks," she said, disengaging herself after a few moments. "You're pretty good at that, you know."

He didn't smile. "You should get some sleep."

"I'm on watch, Alistair."

"Not anymore, you're not." He reached over her and pulled her sword closer. "Off to bed with you, now."

"But -"

"I'll be fine, don't you worry."

Eilin rolled her eyes in an effort to disguise her relief.

"I won't stop you if you're volunteering for my watch," she said, and got to her feet. "I owe you at least one drink now, though. You know that, right?"

He flashed her a grin. "I'm counting on it."

"Oh, I'll bet. But in all seriousness, thank you. I'm...well, you're not the only one who's glad you are you." She hesitated for a split second, then bent closer. "And when I buy you that drink, we'll talk, alright? About us."

"Us?" Alistair repeated. He looked confused, and in a moment of panic she wondered if she'd been wrong.

"There's something between us, isn't there?" she said, forcing herself to look straight at him. "Unless... I've completely misinterpreted everything you said to me back in the Circle Tower."

That got a reaction out of him; a blush appeared on his cheeks, and he smiled; a slow, warm smile that set her heart hammering in her chest.

"I meant every word."

"Well then. Hold that thought, won't you?"

Without waiting for a response, she walked away. Her cold, cramped little tent had never looked so good - and there, she could finally think without distractions.

She knew her dreams would be far more pleasant that night.


	8. Carrion For the Crows

_A personal headcanon of how our favourite Antivan Crow joins the party. No Zevrans were harmed in the making of this fic. They were just...roughed up a bit._

* * *

><p>The spring was not far from camp. Like she predicted, it was only a few minutes' walk, hidden in a copse and overlooked by a small hill.<p>

Eilin shed her clothes and stepped gingerly into the icy water, biting back a squeal as it rose quickly to her thighs. Gooseflesh swept up her legs and arms, prompting her to shiver violently and wrap her arms about herself, miserably wishing she was back in Redcliffe. Four days since they'd left the castle, and she'd been almost spoiled by the luxury of hot water and a bed without stones or rough blankets.

Dunking her soap, she lathered it over her shoulders and arms and through her hair, scrubbing her skin mercilessly to get rid of the layers of dirt and sweat. The shadows were beginning to creep across the clearing, though the ground was still awash in orange light. And the birds...Eilin dunked her head to wash off the soap and resurfaced, frowning. The birds should have been calling to each other before they nested for the night, shouldn't they? And yet there was nothing but an oppressive silence.

Her skin prickled, and she gave a great shiver as her heart began to pound. She wasn't too used to bathing in springs, and might have passed off her sudden nervousness as natural modesty rearing its head. The past two months had given her a good instinct for survival if not much else-and if she wasn't mistaken, she was being watched.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she worried nervously at her lip. Maker, how did she get herself into this? She should have brought Dannar to guard her, or Leliana, or-no, not Alistair, she scolded herself silently, that would be...inappropriate, to say the least. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

With great effort she forced herself to relax, drawing in a deep breath through her nose, and turned around. The grove was empty save for her belongings: clean clothes and boots scattered around her pack along with the soap she'd tossed from the lake moments before. A glint of steel flashed in the failing light, and she felt the first stirrings of hope. She'd completely forgotten about the dagger in her boot; something she carried as a matter of habit but never thought she'd have to use.

_Blessed Andraste, if I walk out of this grove alive, I'll never have another bath again. Well-not alone, anyway._

Her skin crawled as she walked cautiously towards her pack. Every step was agonizing torture. She was sure that whoever-or whatever-was watching would swoop down upon her at any moment. She scrabbled for her trousers and small clothes, almost tearing the material in her haste to pull the garments on.

"Leaving so soon, Warden?"

A pair of boots appeared in her peripheral vision as a male voice spoke into the silence. Her heart in her mouth, Eilin grasped the dagger and stood up, shaking her wet hair over her breasts.

The elf smirked at her expression.

"And here I thought it would be difficult to find you Grey Wardens," he said. He spoke in an odd, lilting accent that seemed strangely familiar. "They told me you were murderers."

"So are many people," Eilin replied, wondering if he was fast enough to dodge a thrown dagger. He was wiry with lean muscles and lightly armoured, blonde hair tied back from his face. Not like any elf she'd ever seen.

"Just so," said the elf, reaching behind him to draw a curved blade with a wicked edge. "Your reputation is well known, Warden, but take away your sword and your armour, and what is left?"

"If you think this is the first time I've been ambushed in my small-clothes, you're wrong."

"Ah? How intriguing." The poor light threw dark shadows on the elf's face, making his grin look sinister. "Let us see how good you are with that dagger, hm?"

Alistair dropped the bundle of wood with a clatter and sighed. The camp was awash with the colour of sunset and bustling with activity as the others set up tents, removed armour and conversed amongst themselves.

"That had better be a bloody good bath," he grumbled under his breath.

If Eilin didn't return soon he would have to hunt for food himself, and with his skill with a bow, he'd just as likely mangle a rabbit, if he didn't miss it completely.

He began to stack wood on the fire and glanced at Dannar as the mabari walked by him. He seemed restless, pacing back and forth and occasionally sniffing the air, his ears pricking as people walked around him. Probably wondering where Eilin is, Alistair thought, not blaming the hound. Surely women didn't take that long to bathe, did they? He had no idea, and he'd never thought to ask-not that it was something that rolled off the tongue.

After adding wood to the fire he went to Leliana, who was sitting on a log she'd dragged in front of the fire, thumbing through a small prayer book.

"What do women do when they bathe?" he asked her.

Leliana lowered her prayer book and gave Alistair such an odd look that he blushed.

_"What?"_

"I just-" he gestured vaguely to the trees beyond their clearing, and tried to ignore his cheeks burning. "Well, it's nearly sundown, and Eilin went for a bath, and she said she'd be back in fifteen minutes, and it's nearly been half an hour. Don't you think she's been gone too long?"

"She is probably just enjoying her bath."

"I know, but…I have a bad feeling. I think I should, just in case." _And I can't go alone, because she would kill me, he added silently._

Leliana shut her book and tucked it into her robes.

"Very well," she said, and picked up her dagger. "I will come with you. And if she is simply taking a little longer than you thought, well, my presence will prove you are not trying to-"

"Maker's breath, no-I would _never_-"

"-then she will not stab you. A good plan, yes?"

He let his breath out in a whoosh. "Yes. No. You know I would never-"

"I know," Leliana laughed. "I was teasing. You're a gentleman, Alistair. It's part of your charm."

"Er…right. Well, I'll just…get my sword then."

Taking Dannar, they went into the forest. The mabari stalked ahead restlessly with his nose to the ground his stub of a tail wagging back and forth, following what Alistair assumed (and hoped) was Eilin's scent.

There was a spring nearby, she'd said, only a few minutes from their camp. He noticed there were tracks in the foliage, and from more than one pair of boots. The prints were fresh.

Suddenly Dannar gave a low howl and surged ahead, crashing through the foliage.

"So much for stealth," Alistair muttered, as Leliana darted after the dog.

The ground began to slope up, until finally the trees gave way. They found themselves on a small hill overlooking a spring. On the bank was a pack half open with clothes and soap scattered in every direction, and Eilin on the ground, pinned under the weight of a man struggling for control of the dagger she held.

Dannar reached them first. He charged and slammed into the figure, knocking him aside with sheer bulk, and bit down on his arm, prompting a cry of pain.

Eilin rolled onto her side, curling into a ball and coughing violently.

"G-guard-" she wheezed, and immediately the dog let go of the would-be assassin's arm.

Alistair dropped his shield and crouched beside her, tipping her chin up. Her face was crimson, tears in her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, eyes widened and her teeth bared in a grimace. Recognition flashed in her eyes, and she gave him a shaky smile.

Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, his stomach squirmed.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Keep an eye on him, will you?" she choked, her voice husky.

"Right. I'll do that. I'm just going to...stand over there, and...you know. Guard."

Leliana had an arrow trained on the man, whom Alistair now realised was also an elf. An elf armed to the teeth, which was not a sight he was used to.

"Ah, you are one of the Warden's companions?" the elf said, leering at Leliana. "Such loveliness should not exist amongst adventurers, surely."

Alistair prodded the elf with the tip of his sword. "I wouldn't talk, if I were you," he said menacingly. The elf shrugged, as if he didn't care either way. An odd attitude to have while on the wrong end of a sword.

Eilin appeared in his peripheral vision a few moments later, wearing a clean shirt that clung to her damp skin. Alistair fixed his gaze determinedly on a spot just over her head, though he found his eyes kept wandering. Thankfully she seemed oblivious to his distraction. She raked her wet hair back from her face and picked up the dagger the elf had dropped, her expression full of naked fury. Her fingers tapped the pommel, as if she was relishing the idea of stabbing the assassin with it. He wasn't sure he'd stop her if she did; he had half a mind to do it himself.

"A shame," said the elf, a mocking smile playing around his mouth. "Covering such lovely flesh should be a crime."

Eilin's eyes narrowed. Crossing the distance between them, she slapped the assassin hard, sending him reeling. Beneath the anger Alistair felt a small measure of satisfaction.

"Stand up," she commanded. The assassin nonchalantly climbed to his feet. There was a red hand-print on his cheek, though he seemed amused rather than angry, staring at her intensely.

"Should I kill him?" Alistair asked.

"No." Her gaze lingered on the elf a moment longer, then she turned away and began to gather her things. "Bring him to camp. Kill him if he tries to escape."

The walk back to camp was awkward, to say the least. Eilin marched in front, her grim silence casting a pall of tension over the entire group. The presence of the elf behind her made her skin crawl while she fought to keep her composure as she walked. The urge to slit his throat was almost painful in its intensity. Reminding herself that killing him accomplished nothing, she swallowed her anger hard. Better to keep him alive for whatever information he had.

The rest of their group gave her several odd looks when she marched back into camp with Alistair, Leliana and the would-be assassin in tow.

"Another stray?" Morrigan observed with raised eyebrows, watching Eilin give the assassin a shove towards the fire.

"Generous of you to warm me up, Grey Warden," he called as she turned away, fists clenching as she made a beeline for her tent.

Once inside she dumped her pack and sank to her knees. Exhaling slowly, she expelled all the anger, frustration and remnants of fear, leaving a hollowness in the pit of her stomach.

If Alistair and Leliana hadn't come when they did, she might have died.

Her hands shook as she lit the small brazier in the corner, then pulled her pack towards her. She yanked out her waterskin and found a roll of bandages. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to endure the horrible sting as she poured water over the cuts on her hands. There were worse things to suffer; she knew she was lucky to have come out of that fight with only minor injuries. There was little she could do for the bruises forming on her throat, and the scratches on her back were not worth treating.

The tent flap lifted aside, and though she heard Alistair's voice, she didn't see him. "Are you…uh…," he paused, then started again after clearing his throat. "May I come in?"

"Yes," she said more sharply than she meant to, then softened her tone slightly. "Come in."

Hesitantly, he ducked his head and shuffled inside, kneeling awkwardly among the tangle of rough blankets.

"Are you alright?" he asked again, brow furrowing in concern. "Are you injured? I didn't think to ask-"

"I'm fine," she muttered, biting her lip as she pulled the bandage tight over her left palm. "I've had worse."

"Here, let me." Without waiting for a response he took the bandages from her and began to wrap her hand, calloused fingers lightly brushing hers.

"Where's the assassin?" she asked, her words clipped and terse.

"Dannar is guarding him by the fire," Alistair replied, his head bent as he tightened the bandage on her palm, prompting a wince from her. "Sorry. Morrigan," he nearly spat, "thinks we should kill him and be done with it." He wore an expression of disgust, like he always did when mentioning the witch. "Never thought I'd agree with her."

"I'm not going to kill him," she replied, slowly. "Though I'd like to. I want to hear what he knows." The softly spoken words sat between them almost palpably for a few quiet moments.

"What he knows," Alistair repeated, resting her right hand on his knee and unrolling the rest of the bandages. "He's an assassin."

"Someone hired that assassin." Reaching for her waterskin, she took a swig and flexed her hand as he tied the bandage securely. "Thank you."

He studied her for a long moment, frowning, then unthinkingly reached out and brushed her hair away from her neck. "You should do something about these."

Her breath hitched slightly as his thumb brushed the tender, swollen flesh of her throat.

"No," she said, and pushed his hand away gently. "It's a lesson."

The elf was sitting outside near the fire. Dannar nearly sat atop him, growling at his every movement.

"Ah, Warden," he drawled when she approached. "Good to see you have not yet had me killed."

"That could easily be rectified," Eilin snapped. She dragged a roughly hewn log over to the fire and clicked her fingers to Dannar. The hound flopped down at her feet, tongue lolling lazily.

"No doubt," the elf said with a mocking grin. "I haven't fought so hard for many years. It was...thrilling."

"Was it?" Eilin said, making an obvious effort to keep her tone level, and rested her dagger on her knees. "I've had enough thrills for today. I'd rather your information."

"Allow me to save you some time, then." The elf gestured with a flourish. "My name is Zevran; Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows."

She should have recognized his accent-his intonations were similar to Oriana's. The memory of her sister-in-law's body appeared in her mind, and she closed her eyes briefly. "And the Antivan Crows are...?"

"A guild of assassins." Zevran shot her a curious glance. "I am surprised you haven't heard of us. We're quite infamous in Antiva."

"Not for being good assassins, obviously."

"Oh, fine. Mock me if you must," he said simply, shrugging. "Must I remind you the...er...difficulties you encountered overcoming me earlier?"

Scowling, she leaned forward, putting herself nearly in his reach. "Tell me who hired you."

"A rather taciturn fellow in Denerim," Zevran said mildly, seemingly unaffected by her furious stare. "A lord...what is it you Fereldans call your lords? _Teyrn_. Teyrn Loghain."

Well, that wasn't particularly a stretch of the imagination, she thought dryly.

"I have a proposal for you, Warden."

Startled out of her thoughts, she gave him a sharp look. "Speak quickly."

"My life is now forfeit," he said easily, and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. "The Crows will kill me, even if you don't. I like living, and you are obviously talented enough to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead."

Eilin shot to her feet without thinking, scowling incredulously. "You must be joking!"

He flashed a smile. "I assure you I am not."

"You try to kill me," she continued, pacing back and forth, "while I am-" she blushed, unable to continue. "And now you want to join me?"

"The killing? It was not personal. But yes, being allowed to live would be nice."

"You must think I'm royally stupid."

Again he smiled. "I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous." his accent lilted over the last words slightly. "Not that I think you'd respond to simple flattery…but there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

The barely contained amusement in his tone should have angered her, but despite herself she suppressed a disbelieving laugh. _Deadly sex goddess_, indeed. He had some nerve, and whether he meant what he said was anyone's guess.

Gripping her dagger tightly, she walked back and forth, shaking her head restlessly until her hair fell into her eyes. The longer she waited to kill him, the more trouble he could cause. And if she let him live...? He would be indebted to her for his life, in addition to swearing an oath of service. Could she risk the lives of her companions for one man? Could she risk hers again?

She'd worn a path in the dirt with her pacing before the assassin spoke again.

"What say you, Warden?"

Startled, Eilin stopped in her tracks and regarded him with another frown.

"I accept your proposal," she told him abruptly, and pointed at him with the blade. "For now. But if you betray me..." she let the unspoken threat hang in the air.

"A fair trade." Zevran dropped to one knee in front of her, making her shift uncomfortably as she felt the gaze of every person in camp upon them.

"I pledge my oath of loyalty to you," he said, raising his head to look at her directly in the eyes. "Until such time as you choose to release me, I am your man without reservation. This, I swear."

The sincerity in his voice was obvious-or was it simply a ploy to gain her trust? Eilin had no way of knowing. Some things you had to take on faith. Finally, she closed the distance between them, offering her hand to help him up.

"I will hold you to that oath, Zevran."


	9. Entanglement

"A coin for your thoughts, Warden."

Zevran's voice was rich and warm, carefully layered with just the right amount of flirtation, yet it may as well have been as rough and guttural as Sten's. Eilin leaned back against Bodahn's wagon and stretched one leg out, flexing her calf to ease the cramped muscle, and forced herself not to reply harshly. The elf had stayed out of her way in the weeks since his unconventional introduction to their party, but being on watch together meant they had to at least maintain some civility.

"I was wondering what month it is," she said finally. It was half true; just one of the many thoughts passing through her mind. It had been...early Cloudreach when she'd left Highever, and by her guess at least two months had passed then. "I suppose it would be summer now." And past her birthday, she supposed. She felt older, but perhaps not exactly in that way.

"The seasons in this country are much the same to me," Zevran sighed. He scooted over and leaned on the wagon, folding his arms over his stomach.

Eilin couldn't help laughing. "If you think this is cold, wait until the snows come."

"I would rather not, if I could help it."

"Suit yourself." Shrugging, she wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head on them, ignoring the curls that fell into her eyes. "I take it you fancy Antivan summers over ours."

"I fancy many things, my dear Warden."

She knew where this conversation would end up, and yet she couldn't help herself. "Such as?"

"Things that are beautiful." She could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes - when had she allowed him to get so close? "Things that are strong. Things that are dangerous and exciting. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"

The question threw her off guard. _What an odd thing to ask_, she thought, wondering if it was only lack of sleep muddling her senses._ Why should he care if he offends me or not?_

She lifted her head and pulled her braid over one shoulder, then let her arms fall to her sides. "You barely know me."

His fingers brushed her arm and she fought the urge to jump away from the contact.

"That is true. I suppose it would be nothing we cannot work past, hm? If one were willing."

"If one were willing," she agreed, "I suppose it would."

He chuckled, low and rough. "Ah, Warden. Such a tease."

His fingers brushed her arm again, one thumb pressing down on the scar running the length of her forearm. She watched him carefully, for what she didn't know - sudden movements, the appearance of a knife. The brush of his fingers on her wrist made her stomach squirm, not unpleasantly.

No, definitely not unpleasantly. And that was the problem.

"Do you always do this to your targets?" she asked, as he ran one calloused finger down her palm.

Zevran paused, and a frown flashed across his face.

"Must I remind you of the oath I swore? I do not barter my loyalty so easily."

You might if it suited you, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. He had kept to his oath so far, what good would suspicion do?

A crunch of boots on foliage tore her gaze away from him and she jumped, reaching for her sword.

"Nature calls, my friend?" Zevran said as Alistair stepped into view.

Alistair didn't answer. His gaze locked with Eilin's over the campfire, and she tried her hardest not to look as guilty as she felt. Pushing away Zevran's hand, she made to climb to her feet, but Alistair turned away and disappeared into the trees.

She hadn't done anything wrong, and neither had Zevran...had they? She had no idea of the protocol when it came to...whatever she and Alistair were. Nevertheless, she had let her guard down, and forgotten the Antivan was a very dangerous man. Loneliness was making her foolish.

"Why so morose, lovely Warden?" Zevran murmured, when the sound of Alistair's footsteps faded into the night. She didn't answer him.

When ten minutes passed and Alistair didn't reappear, Eilin set her sword aside and climbed to her feet.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, untying her cloak. "Scream if there's darkspawn."

"My dear, I do not scream. But for you I shall make a great fuss. I may even save a few for you."

Shaking her head, she skirted around the fire, calling "Stay!" to Dannar as he rose.

The forest - if you could really call it that - was mercifully bright, lit by a full moon over the sparse canopy of trees. She did not trouble to keep her footsteps quiet.

She found Alistair leaning against a tree shredding bark in his hands. He didn't look up when she approached, though she'd been making nearly enough noise to wake the dead.

"Another nightmare?"

He shrugged, brushing broken bark off his shirt. "I'm used to it. Fresh air helps clear my head."

"That, and taking it out on helpless trees. What did it ever to do you, anyway?"

The serious expression cracked, his familiar grin showing through, and she found herself echoing his smile as she always did. Moving around him, she leaned against the tree and folded her arms.

"Is this about me and Zevran?" she asked. No point in skirting around the issue.

Alistair was silent for a long time, with Eilin studying him in the dim light. He seemed nervous, picking apart the last shreds of bark in his fingers, shuffling his feet and looking anywhere but at her. The silence hung thick and heavy between them.

"He tried to kill you," he said eventually. "Doesn't that bother you?"

She frowned. "Of course it bothers me. What kind of question is that?"

Alistair said nothing.

Sighing, Eilin rubbed her forehead, then reached for his hands and drew him closer. "I'm sorry. I'm tired. Look..." She swallowed the sudden emotion that rose in her. "Zevran is...I won't deny that he's pleasant enough to look at. But he's not you."

"I don't understand."

His hands were still in hers; she pressed his fingers between hers, rubbing the calloused flesh. His hands were always warm, something she envied him for.

"Do you remember that night you gave me the rose?"

Alistair groaned. "Yes. Do you have to remind me? I should have swallowed my foot instead of - "

"Oh, I thought you were very sweet. I forgot to return the favour, though." She swallowed hard, suddenly unable to look at him. "All this time, since we've been escaping from the Wilds and being rescued by witches and picking up companions - you've been by my side constantly. I couldn't ask for a better man with me through all this."

"Maker, Eilin, are you trying to make me blush?"

"Maybe. No, I'm being serious. Just listen, alright? There is nothing that Zevran has that I could possibly want. He makes me feel nervous, and not in a good way. You make me feel..." she paused, forcing herself to look directly at him. "You make me feel like I'm not alone anymore."

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed, and Eilin knew a moment of apprehension. Was it possible that she misinterpreted Alistair's feelings, or that she had somehow imagined...?

He was still so close, their faces scant inches apart, and his hands gripped hers like he was afraid she would disappear.

"Say something," she whispered, tugging on his fingers. "You're scaring me here."

"Eilin, I..." his voice cracked, and she saw him swallow hard. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, you could at least let me down gently." Eilin lowered her voice to mimic his. _"Yes, Lady Cousland, you're really very nice, but you like to stab things too much, I think the darkspawn would come between us._"

"Maker's breath, woman! Will you let me get my thoughts in order first?"

"Oh, you're no fun."

"You'll be the death of me," Alistair said, but there was no heat in his voice. "You know I care about you...a great deal in fact. I just didn't think you felt the same way about me."

She grinned, squeezing his arm affectionately. "Well I do, and here I thought I was being the obvious one."

"Ah, so I fooled you, did I?" Alistair leaned in close, his nose bumping hers. "Good to know."

His lips brushed hers, hesitantly at first, then bolder when she melted against him with a sigh.

She'd known how inexperienced he was, and it wasn't as if she was any expert either, but as the kiss deepened she had to wonder if he had really never done this before. Tall as she was, she had to loop one arm around his neck for support as he pulled her closer, lifting her onto the tip of her toes, and pressed forward until his arm met the tree trunk with a dull thud, his bracer taking the brunt of the impact - mercifully protecting her back from being thumped against rough bark.

After a few moments he pulled back, forcing her to tighten her grip around his neck. Her heart hammered mercilessly against her chest, warming her all the way to her toes. Who knew a templar-initiate-turned-Grey-Warden could kiss like_ that?_

"You've been holding out on me," she told him, half-laughing, and rested her forehead against his.

The arm around her back tightened, and his free hand slid to the back of her neck. "That...wasn't too soon, was it?"

"Well, I don't know." She let her hand wander over his cheek, brushing a thumb over his mouth, and leaned closer until her lips barely touched his. "I might need more..._testing_ to be sure."

They went back to camp five minutes later, side by side - and if Eilin hovered closer than was necessary, or if Alistair had a definite spring in his step, then there was no-one around to notice. No one but Zevran, of course, who watched their too-casual goodnight with a raised eyebrow.

"I take it you've solved your differences, Warden?" he murmured as she stretched out beside him, pulling her sword into her lap once more.

A little smile curved her mouth upwards and she scooted closer to the fire, so the heat would flush her cheeks instead. "You could say that."


	10. Precipice

Zevran's smirk mirrored the amusement in his eyes as he leaned back on his chair and drained the rest of his mug.

"My dear," he said around a mouthful of brandy, "if this is you sober, I would be worried for the state of your country."

Eilin dragged one hand over her face, and laughter bubbled out from between her fingers. "I am sober!"

Swaying, she grabbed Alistair's shoulder for support, causing him to tilt dangerously on his seat. The two of them broke into giggles.

"By the Maker," Wynne muttered, peering in disapproval at them over the rim of her mug.

Leliana laughed and shrugged, draining her mug in one swig. "This is nice, non? Having a roof over our heads, even if it is for just one night."

Alistair had to agree. The inn was pretty crowded and he could hardly hear over the din of mugs clinking and people talking, but it was better than being camped in the freezing rain outside the city. Plus, the ale was doing the trick. The room was tilting and he felt pleasantly heavy-limbed, Eilin's head was on his shoulder and the heat of her skin warmed him. Then her head promptly slid down his arm and hit the table with a thump, and Zevran let out a great bark of laughter.

"What did I tell you?"

"I'm not drunk," came the muffled response, and she lifted her head and swept her hair off her face. A giggle escaped her, then another. She retrieved her mug and scowled into it.

"Why is my drink gone?"

"You spilled it ten minutes ago," Wynne replied, and plucked the empty mug out of her hand. Eilin glared at her like an indignant puppy.

"You can have some of mine," Alistair offered, and Eilin smiled at him and touched his cheek, an expression that would have been sweeter if her eyes had been slightly more focused.

"See, this is why I like you."

Normally he would have had something to say in response, but his tongue tripped over his words, so he simply slid his tankard over. Eilin drained it in one gulp and leaned against him again, closing her eyes.

"I want another one," she mumbled.

Zevran lifted an eyebrow in amusement and let the legs of his chair fall back to the floor.

"Should I -"

"No." Wynne placed her mug on the table. "No more. Take her upstairs, Alistair, and go to bed."

"Oh, dear Wynne. You spoil my fun."

"I shudder to think what your idea of fun is, Zevran." The mage lifted a stern eyebrow. "Upstairs, Alistair."

"Alright, alright." Alistair lurched to his feet and pulled Eilin upright - rougher than he'd intended, to his dismay. She stumbled and nearly fell, clutching his shirt and breaking into giggles.

"Where are we going?" she laughed as he steered her unsteadily towards the stairs, ignoring the tittering of the other patrons.

"Upstairs. Wynne said..." Alistair paused. Wynne had said something, hadn't she? She'd wanted him to take Eilin somewhere and...he didn't remember. "Wynne said we had to go upstairs."

"Why?" Eilin said petulantly, stumbling on the first step. "I want more mead."

"I think she said...we had to ...sleep together."

She paused on the stair above him and gave him such an odd look that he frowned. Sleeping was good, wasn't it? Maybe it was the way he'd said it? His tongue didn't seem to be working too well. Or his brain, for that matter. But then she smiled at him and took his hand, and whatever coherent thoughts he had quickly fled.

She reached the top of the stairs first and pulled him up after her, giggling as he stumbled and grabbed onto her for support. They fell against the wall and her lips were on his before he knew what was happening. She tasted like mead - unsurprising, given how much she'd drank - and she pulled herself against him until he was practically squashing her into the wall.

"Oi!"

They broke apart, and Alistair looked over his shoulder to find a woman in a tattered dress glaring at him.

"You can't do that in the corridors!" she snapped, and pointed down the hall. "Them's rooms for a reason!"

Vaguely he wondered what the others would think, as EIlin pulled him down the hall. But it was Wynne who'd told him to...to take her upstairs and...then what? Go to bed? She hadn't said that...had she? He hoped not. He was a grown man, damn it, and he could decide his own bedtime.

Alistair shot a glance at Eilin, who was wavering rather dangerously on her feet, and tried to remember what Wynne had actually said. Something about upstairs, and Eilin, and no more...no more ale? Where was the fun in that?

Eilin was singing as she stumbled to the door of her room; some ballad about a young maiden or a sad cat, he couldn't tell through the fog descending on his brain.

Wynne was very good at setting things on fire, Alistair thought, pausing on the threshold.

Maybe it was better to stay up here for the moment.

Some instinct or sense of propriety made him hesitate, hovering uncertainly until Eilin beckoned him inside and collapsed on the bed with a happy sigh.

Somehow he summoned the presence of mind to shut the door - quietly, even - but his train of thought fled when he saw her unrolling the sleeves on her tunic.

"What-" his voice caught in his throat; licking his lips, he tried again. "What are you doing?"

She pulled her tunic off and began to unpin her hair, and the light from the fire made the outline of her body glow through her thin under-tunic. He swallowed hard.

"You can sit down," she said, combing her fingers through her hair. "Go on."

Awkwardly he sat and began to remove his boots, sure that his face was red enough to light up the room even without the fire going. He couldn't stop his thoughts from jumping ahead, his eyes firmly fixed on the buckles on his boots, and definitely not at her. And definitely not thinking of warm skin and clever hands and lips and tongue and - _no, Alistair, stop it. This is not helping._

She touched his shoulder and he jerked in surprise, so hard she pulled back with a startled giggle.

"It's just me."

_Damn it._ His blush was bright enough to burn his cheeks now, and she was so close he could see the freckles on her nose.

"Leliana was right," she whispered. "Don't you think?"

"About what?"

"About having a roof over our heads." Smiling, she laced her hands around his neck. "It's good to have some privacy. Just for one night."

"Yes, privacy. For...what, though?"

Again with the odd look. He had a feeling he was missing something, or there was some conclusion he was meant to draw from all this. That happened a lot.

"How much did you actually have to drink?" Eilin asked. She relaxed her grip around his neck, one hand idly toying with the collar of his shirt.

Alistair shrugged. "Erm...I don't know. Two pints? Three pints? Minus the one you pinched."

"Excuse you. I seem to remember you offering me the rest of your drink." She grinned. "And besides, you didn't need any more."

Alistair gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "You're kidding, right? And who was practically falling over on the stairs?"

"I didn't hear you protesting overly."

"It was drowned out by your singing. What was that, anyway? It sounded like -" he stopped himself in time, remembering that most people didn't like their singing compared to an over-excited mabari. "Uh, I mean...I didn't recognise the language."

"It was Antivan." She was smiling genuinely now, her face open and relaxed. "My brother's wife used to sing it, and she taught me."

"Tell me about her," Alistair said.

Eilin chewed her lip for a few moments, deep in thought.

"She came from Salle," she said eventually, "near Rialto Bay. She said that's why she liked Highever, because it's on the coast like her city. I think she mentioned once that the air smelled the same."

"And...did it?"

"I don't know," she laughed. "I've never been to Antiva. Oriana was sweet, and good, and she...loved Fergus and Oren a lot."

The last words she said in a low voice, and he kissed away the frown forming on her brow. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought them up."

"There's no need to be sorry." Her hands returned to his neck, fingernails gently scraping the hair at the base of his skull. "I miss my family a lot, as I'm sure you miss Duncan. But it's not so bad. They're gone, but...I still have you."

She was still smiling at him, gently and a little crooked, so beautiful he couldn't stop himself from reaching for her. Winding his hands in her hair, he kissed her hard, and the hands around his neck tightened as she pulled herself into the kiss. He didn't know quite what he was doing, only that her tongue was in his mouth and suddenly she was sitting on him instead of beside him, and he hadn't expected that. He scooted back on the bed rather ungracefully and she followed, landing sprawled on his chest with a thump that drove the wind from his lungs.

"Maker's breath," he wheezed as she began to giggle. "What-what's so funny?"

Eilin leaned over him, the tendrils of her hair tickling his face, and kissed his nose. "We are. You are. Did I ever tell you how much I like you?"

"Well, we wouldn't be doing this if you didn't...would we?" His head was spinning, and it took him a few moments to realise he was clutching her thighs rather tightly. Some vague part of his mind noticed how much softer and warmer she seemed; though as most of their encounters consisted of sneaking into the forest at night for a few kisses, that was hardly surprising.

"No," she murmured, and slid forward in just the right place, and he twitched reflexively. She bent closer and kissed him on the mouth. "We wouldn't."

Frantically he searched for something to say; a joke, or something to distract her - but all coherent thought seemed to have fled. Not that it was all that reliable in the first place.

Her hands were on his chest, pulling at the laces on his shirt before common sense returned to him in a sudden stab of panic. He grabbed her fingers. "Wait!"

She paused with a confused look made comical by her hair falling into her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"It's just...um...what are we doing?"

"Do I have to spell it out?" she laughed and bent closer. "Or would you prefer I...improvise?"

"That is so not what I meant." It was difficult to think with his senses straining at every brush of her body against his, and it wasn't as if that damned tunic left much to the imagination. When she shifted on top of him he closed his eyes and willed his sanity and presence of mind to hold on.

Eilin grinned and moved her hips and he bit back a gasp, and some part of his mind wondered if she'd always been this wicked and he'd simply failed to notice until-

"Wasn't it?" she murmured, grinning widely. "The rest of you seems eager enough."

"Yes, alright," Alistair replied - Maker, even he didn't know he could blush this much. "But do we really have to do this? Right now? I mean...we've only just..."

Her face fell; she pulled back and the hurt in her expression made him want to cringe.

"I don't understand," she said haltingly. "I thought that we -I-you said-"

"I - I know Wynne told me to -" Alistair groaned and let go of her, fisting his hands in his hair. "Just let me explain, alright? I know most men would probably leap at this chance, but..." And there's the blushing again. "I don't know if I'm ready for it...for that. I was raised not to take this sort of thing lightly."

"I see." Her mouth turned down at the corners, and steel laced her tone - an odd contrast to her flushed cheeks. "And you think I was?"

Alistair groaned. "No, that's not at all what I meant." Gently he pulled her hand away from his shirt. "I must sound like such a fool to you, but...this isn't the time or place for it. We're in an inn and the others will be upstairs soon, and we're both far too drunk for this." She was blushing now, trying to tug her hand out of his grip, but he held on doggedly. "It's not that I don't want to. That must be...erm, pretty obvious. But just not...now." He paused, trying to keep a grip on his resolve. "I hope that hasn't put you off."

Shoulders slumping, she regarded him with a defeated expression, and in a moment of apprehension he thought he'd really, truly offended her. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're going to be the death of me."

He exhaled slowly, forcing his heartbeat to slow, and combed his fingers through her hair. The muscles of her neck were tense and knotted and he pressed down, rubbing gently.

"You keep doing that," she muttered, "and I won't take no for an answer." Sighing, she lifted her head, and the weariness in her expression made him feel guilty all of a sudden.

Maker knew he'd left most of the leading and decision-making to her so far - more often than he should, in fact. Funny how this was the first real decision he'd made, or at least the one that impacted him the most. Maybe he really was just insane to stop her...but she'd had so much to drink, and she wasn't herself. What kind of man would he be to take advantage of that?

He pulled her closer with one hand on the small of her back, and with the other he shifted her so she was lying on the bed. She was rapidly dozing off, fingers clutched around a handful of his shirt and eyelids fluttering.

"Stay with me," she muttered as he sat back on his haunches. "Don't go, Alistair."

"I-" he cast a quick glance at the door, but he heard only silence from the hall. "I'm not sure that's -"

"I don't care what the others think." She rose up on her elbows, blinking sleepily, still frowning. "I don't care about what's proper."

He rolled his eyes. "If that's not a recipe for disaster, I don't know what is." But he lay down on his side, pulling one of the rough blankets up around them both, and she curled into him. Within a few minutes her breathing began to slow. She was still holding onto his shirt, fingers slack, head resting in the crook of his shoulder.

Alistair let his muscles loosen and cast his eyes up to the ceiling, sighing heavily, and wondered just how this girl had managed to get the better of him.


	11. Excess

_Sweet Andraste, _everything hurt.

Her head throbbed in protest whenever she moved, and her mouth felt like she'd been inhaling sand. It was far, far too bright, even with the pillow pressed against her face.

There had to be something else to block out the blasted sunlight. Another pillow, perhaps? A blanket. A tent. A shirt. _Anything_.

Eilin reached from under the pile of blankets and groped around blindly, wincing as the movement jolted pain through her shoulder. Her grasping fingers touched something squishy and she tugged on it impatiently.

_Strange_, she thought, and squeezed the squishy...thing. It seemed far too warm to be a pillow.

"Awake at last?"

She lifted her head with considerable effort and blinked groggily at the face swimming in her vision.

It was Alistair. And she was sitting on her bed, squashing a pillow-her pillow, she thought indignantly-between his hands. Her fingers were clutching his forearm, digging into his flesh. His surprisingly squishy flesh.

She removed her hand and tried to sit up with what little dignity she still possessed.

"What," she said imperiously, "are you doing in my bed?"

Alistair's grin only widened, and he pulled the pillow out of reach as she made a grab for it.

"You," he said, imitating her manner of speaking, "dragged me in here last night. Quite insistently, I might add."

Now she remembered.

She'd drank way too much mead. And ale. And whiskey. And apparently invited Alistair back to her room.

But that meant-no. They couldn't have.

Could they?

"You were quite drunk," Alistair said cheerfully. _Far too cheerfully_, Eilin thought, and glared at him. She rested her head on her knees, burying her face in between them until only her crimson forehead showed.

"Especially when you tried to kiss me in front of-"

Eilin pulled the pillow away from him and put it over her face.

"-spent some time telling me how very...flexible...you are-"

"No, no, no, no. I didn't."

"-and you joined Leliana in one of her ballads. I must say," Alistair continued, still grinning, "you have many talents, dear lady, but singing is not one of them."

He ducked just in time; the pillow sailed over his head and knocked over a vase in the corner.

"Quite the temper you have," Alistair said, tsking. "Oh, and speaking of that-you tried to start a fight with two mercenaries, too." He paused and his expression became thoughtful. "I've never even heard of half the curses you shouted at them. I think even Morrigan's ears were burning."

"Go away," Eilin moaned, and dropped the other pillow on her face. "Leave me alone to die."

"Oh, you won't die. Wynne made sure of that. She made you drink some sort of potion and made me stay here to watch you in case you tried to climb out the window." He paused. "Which you did. But only once."

He scrambled off the bed and bid a hasty retreat as Eilin threw the second pillow, followed by a discarded boot. Once the door slammed and quiet descended, she fell back on the bed and threw her arms over her face.

She was never drinking again. _Never_.


	12. Epiphany

_This is a collection of drabbles and one-shots revolving around my f!Cousland PC, Eilin. Some romance, some dealing with behind-the-scenes issues while her and her erstwhile companions travel Ferelden to gather an army to defeat the Blight and Teyrn Loghain._

_They are not all in chronological order. As I add more, I will probably write a list of the stories and which order they are in on my page._

_Feedback, including constructive criticism, is always welcome._

_Note that some of the stories will diverge from canon, and the whole collection is rated M for adult situations...violence and sex notwithstanding._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Epiphany<strong>

The merchant's stall was deliberately placed outside the awning in Denerim's market square to catch the sunlight. It was a trick Eilin had seen many times at the markets in Highever, and it worked: she'd seen at least a dozen women and children drawn to the array of glittering trinkets, and it seemed she was no exception.

The man's wares were fairly generic; pretty things one could find in any Fereldan market if you knew where to look. Yet the craftsmanship was poor, even she could see that; cheap imitations of Orlesian jewelry painted with gold leaf to disguise uneven edges and finger marks. She'd never been one for jewelry, if only because she was taught to be practical, or maybe because she simply disliked tasteless displays of wealth.

No, it wasn't the jewelry that caught her eye. It was a glass vase at the very back of the stall, a beautiful thing carefully molded into the shape of a swan. Orlesian, naturally; there were no master glassblowers in Ferelden that she knew of. That was far more to her taste; pretty but still useful, even if only for holding flowers.

"That catch yer fancy, serah?"

Eilin shrugged, rolling the vase between her palms. Her mother had loved things like this. For a moment she considered buying it, if only out of sentiment. She doubted her companions would appreciate it, though.

Then she saw the crest stamped on the underside of the swan's wing, and for a moment thought her heart had literally stopped.

"Where did you get this?" she demanded.

The merchant took a step back at her harsh tone, his small eyes flicking from her face to the sword at her side.

"I—I got it from a merchant up at Amaranthine City," he stammered. "I-it's an Orlesian piece. Straight from Val Royeaux, m-made only by the finest glassblowers."

Eilin already knew that. She remembered the day when Father had given it to Mother, one of the many things he brought back from his trip.

She set the vase back down, afraid she would drop it if her hands shook any more, and stared at his goods, noticing amongst them the vine-and-leaf pattern on a brooch—a brooch she'd seen many a time on Mother's cloak—and a letter opener made of silverite.

"A ridiculous waste of silverite," she remembered commenting to her Father, as he opened letters in his study, and he laughed and said she was Fereldan to the core.

She felt sick.

"Are you ready to go?"

She would have jumped in surprise at Alistair's sudden appearance at her elbow had all her concentration not been focused on that letter opener. And for once her heart was not hammering because of his closeness, and the brush of his fingers on her wrist had nothing to do with the sweat beading on her palms.

She picked up the short blade, turned it over in gloved fingers, and found the laurel wreaths carved into the hilt, just as she'd dreaded.

"A fine piece," the merchant said nervously, his gaze darting back and forth between the two heavily armed people in front of him. "Made in Orlais also."

No, Eilin wanted to say. It was a gift from Arl Bryland.

She took a step back, dropping the blade as if it burned her, and fled. The market square blurred and shifted before her, and the blood thrummed in her ears. She dove into the crowd of people, bumping many and shoving aside some, overcome by the need to get away.

Cool shadows replaced the suddenly unbearable heat of the sun, and she leaned against the warehouse door and pushed her knuckles into her eyes until spots danced under her lids. She didn't look up at the sound of heavy footsteps.

"Eilin?"

Alistair, and his fingers biting into her shoulders, and his face close to hers—it should have brought her a thrill or maybe even a blush, but all she felt was horror and fury and deep down, some measure of despair.

"Eilin, what's wrong? Talk to me."

His voice sounded odd, like she was hearing him from a great distance, and her voice sounded equally strange. She was trying to explain; to make him understand the way her gut twisted when she realised it was her family's possessions reduced to merchant's wares, and how sick she felt at the thought of her home violated by bandits and scavengers, and how everything she cared about was lost, all lost. But the only sounds her throat made were sobs so deep they shook her entire body, and all she could do was cling to Alistair, so tightly she must have hurt him. But Alistair, Maker bless him, understood. He always did.


	13. Overwhelmed

There was an old saying in Highever;_ nothing is stronger than habit_, and it was another lesson Eilin had learnt since she left - along with how to stop a templar and a mage from bickering, and that one should never, ever try to haggle with a dwarf.

She had always risen before dawn to practice while at home, and four months of constant traveling hadn't stopped that. Somehow she'd forgotten that the notion of privacy was laughable when travelling with so many people.

She just wished the damn Qunari would stop staring at her while she practiced.

And while it was tempting to simply ignore him, seven feet of hulking muscle and armour was hard to miss, especially when he stood just in her line of sight.

_That was deliberate_, she thought, and slowly swung her sword in a wide arc. _Why did I put him on fourth watch again?_

She turned away and went through her routine again, feeling the familiar burn of muscles in need of stretching, and enjoying the sound of steel whistling in the cool air. But when several minutes passed and she could still feel Sten's gaze on the back of her head, she stopped and turned around.

"Is there something you need, Sten?"

"Your form is sloppy." There was a note of disdain in his voice that made her bristle immediately, raising her eyebrows in response.

"Well, I am a little rusty," she allowed, trying not to frown. "My father's guard captain used to make me practice every day before dawn, but I've not had much time since I left Ostagar."

"Then he did a poor job of teaching you." Sten folded his arms and looked her up and down again. "Your defense is weak. I can see no fewer than five flaws."

Lowering her sword, she shot him an incredulous glance. She wasn't exactly unused to being berated for her technique, so it wasn't much cause for surprise. Cenred had taught her everything he knew, and he never sugar-coated his criticism. She'd respected him for that.

"Teach me to do better, then," she said, and held his gaze. "Or go away and let me practice."

With another glance Sten turned and left, muttering something under his breath, and she resumed her routine. He returned a few minutes later, with the greatsword she'd bought for him in Redcliffe.

She'd never noticed how easily he hefted the blade, like it weighed almost nothing. That wasn't good.

He had a hitch in his step, she noticed; he favoured his right leg ever so slightly - probably an old injury from the battle that led to his capture. Eilin rolled her shoulders and loosened her walk, footsteps falling into a familiar pattern and he copied her movement. The powerful muscles in his arms shifted and flexed, thick fingers gripping the blade's hilt tightly.

Suddenly he lunged forward, swinging the greatsword in a wide arc that she easily dodged, taking advantage of his momentum to aim for his unprotected armpit. He changed direction quicker than she anticipated and she jumped back, barely missing his follow up strike.

He was faster than she thought; not as quick as she, but enough to give her pause. The greatsword was a problem too. It gave him a longer reach, and even a single blow was enough to injure her severely.

But this was just a sparring session, right?

Eilin's mind raced ahead as they circled again, planning strategies and searching for any weaknesses in his defense. Once again he swung and again their blades met with a ringing clash, which was exactly what she didn't want. She disengaged and sprang away, out of reach of his swipe.

Sten did not look pleased; he glowered at her as she stepped to the side, circling closer inch by inch. "It is truly a wonder how you've survived this long."

"I got lucky," Eilin said flippantly. Taunting a Qunari probably wasn't the best strategy, but angry opponents tended to lose their heads - literally and figuratively.

"Luck has little to do with it. One would think you would have some concern for your life, given your skills are lacking."

"Oh, that's nice."

Their swords met again, Eilin twisting away from the blow. The tip of Sten's greatsword missed her torso -_ thank the Maker_ - and cut a neat slice in her tunic. She jumped backward rather ungracefully. "Hey! Be careful!"

The others were gathering now, roused by the clang of steel and raised voices. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Alistair striding towards them, his voice the most familiar.

"Eilin! What are you -"

Sten charged at her with a hoarse shout; eyes snapping back to him, she darted to the side. Not quick enough - his sword sliced into her thigh, cutting leather and flesh in a wild swipe.

The pain was shocking and immediate. Staggering back, she fell on her backside, vaguely aware of the shouts of alarm coming from their audience.

"Eilin! Move!"

She barely had time to register Sten bearing down on her, sword poised to strike. She rose up on one knee and met his blade with her own, his strength with hers - and wasn't _that_ a laugh, because she was a weakling compared to him. She gave a great heave, pushing his sword away long enough to roll to the side and spring back up, grimacing in pain but thankfully still in one piece.

Behind her she heard the familiar sound of blades being drawn, and held out her hand. "Don't!"

Their confused stares bored into her back, the barely murmured words just audible over the blood pounding in her ears.

Expressionless, the Qunari paced back and forth just out of her reach, and she watched his movements warily. Her leg was aflame, the slow ache and burn increasing in intensity until her hands clenched white on her weapons, and it shook when she put weight on it. The injury was obviously worse than she'd thought.

Cursing under her breath, she stripped off one boot cover and unhooked the other, pulling her dirk from its sheath. She didn't want to see what the wound looked like under the layers of leather and wool - it was unpleasant enough feeling the blood running down her leg.

She laid her sword and boot covers aside and shed the pieces of her outfit as quickly as possible, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on Sten. The pauldrons, breastplate, and bodice were too heavy for this kind of fight; she needed speed more than protection, and her belts and scabbards were unnecessary.

She picked up her dagger and her dirk and faced Sten, gooseflesh from something more than just the cold raising on her bare arms.

They met each other in the centre, steel scraping on steel, the occasional exclamation from the others the only sound. Freed from unnecessary weight, Eilin twisted and dodged and fought back as much as one with two daggers against a greatsword could. For her trouble she received another two cuts - one across her arm from a careless manoeuvre, and another on her forehead that dripped blood into her eye.

"_Parshaara!_" Sten spat as she slipped under his strike and retreated. "Do you intend to run from me as well as the Blight?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she shot back between breaths, dancing around his swing. Her dirk slashed him across the forearm, once, twice, and he grunted.

"The archdemon is our goal!" he snarled, and swung at her. The blow was clumsy and slow - perhaps he was angrier than she thought - and she twisted underneath the blow, thrusting her dagger upwards.

The blade entered with the sickening sound of flesh yielding to steel, and Sten froze.

By the way the tales were told, killing a man was an easy feat, when Eilin knew it was not. She'd expected him to fold, even to stagger, to give her some advantage - instead he dropped his greatsword and grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she dropped her dirk. Bones crunched and ground together, and she twisted wildly, kicking at him. She may as well have kicked a stone wall.

"Instead," he growled between ragged breaths, pulling her closer, "we are chasing the charred remnants of a dead woman - and I - I will not simply follow in your shadow any longer!"

Eilin snapped her head forward, bone meeting cartilage with a sickening crunch, and the Qunari roared. His spare hand found her throat, thick fingers digging into her windpipe.

"Stop!"

Eilin froze in mid-air, pinioned in place by whorls of blinding light. Panicking, she tried to twist out of Sten's grasp before she realised he was frozen too, his violet eyes darting from side to side, expression twisted in a grimace.

Then the magic rushed out of her limbs all at once and she fell heavily on her hands and knees. Scrabbling for her dirk, she scooted backwards rapidly despite the protest of joints and muscle, until she realised he was still held by the magic.

Wynne appeared in Eilin's line of sight with her staff still brandished, and the look on the mage's face chilled her. Then gentle hands were helping her up, holding her steady and firm as her legs buckled. Wynne said something, the lines on her forehead deepening and Eilin heard Alistair's reply, but it was muted, and her chest began to tighten.

She pushed him away, rougher than she'd intended, and stumbled past them, dirk falling from nerveless fingers, ignoring the looks and questions thrown her way. Sten's roar of rage echoed around the clearing as she staggered into the forest blindly, not even caring where she was going, just overcome with the need to get away.

She stopped halfway into the forest and sat down. Vaguely she knew she was crying - the type of crying that twists at your gut and shakes your whole body, and she didn't even know _why_.

But that wasn't true, was it? She'd known exactly what happened, but up until now it had felt like a dream - like she was watching herself in slow motion. Attacking a companion, someone she'd sworn she would protect as well as command.

_He attacked you_, she reminded herself. Some comfort that was.

The crunch of footsteps on foliage alerted her to another presence, and she turned her head so they couldn't see her tears.

"Leave me be," she said, voice thick and muffled.

"If you're going to sulk," Wynne said. "At least put your tunic on. I'd hate for you to catch your death after you just narrowly escaped it."

Sighing, Eilin took the proffered garment. Her arm muscles protested when she pulled the tunic over her head, but she stayed silent while Wynne leaned against the tree.

"Sten is back in camp," she said, after she'd arranged her robes. "The others thought it best to bind him."

Eilin let the tension linger until it became awkward, aware of the old mage's sharp gaze on her. Finally she said, "I should have seen this coming."

Wynne offered no comment, but her silence spoke volumes. Eilin stared at the ground until her eyes began to sting again.

"I've been so wrapped up in trying to keep everyone safe and alive that I...I guess I thought he would follow me without question. But why should he?" her tone turned bitter. "Why should any of you?"

Wynne leaned her staff against the tree and regarded her with an appraising look.

"I had an apprentice once," she said softly. "He was an elf raised in an alienage, very mistrustful of humans. He was talented, but he needed time and space. I expected him to act like a mage, and he -" she cut herself off, frowning, as Eilin gave her a curious look. "It does not matter. My point is, people will rarely behave the way you want them to. Try as you might, you cannot change them any more than you can change the weather."

"You can change the weather," Eilin pointed out, a smile quirking her lips.

"I can only work with what is already there, and so can you." Wynne touched Eilin's cheek. "You are one of the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Much rests on your shoulders, and you are young. No-one expects you to be perfect."

The kindness in her expression was unbearable. Eilin turned away, swiping at her eyes angrily, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that followed.

"I can't do this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You can and you will," Wynne replied firmly. "Sten is a Qunari. His ways are not our ways. He is an unknown quantity, and there was no possible way you could predict how he would react."

When Eilin didn't respond, the mage lowered herself to the ground and bent over the gash in her leg. As the magic washed over her, Eilin leaned back against the tree and sighed heavily.

"Thank you."

"Hmm?" Wynne glanced up, eyebrows raising while she pressed fingers to Eilin's forehead.

"Thank you," Eilin repeated. She stood slowly, sighing with relief as the pain in her leg began to fade, and helped the older woman to her feet. "I needed that."

"Go wash your face," Wynne said, smiling. "Best you don't take too long, unless you wish to worry Alistair half to death."

Once she'd left, Eilin fisted her hands in her hair and closed her eyes, trying to collect what was left of her patience.

Wynne was right, at least about some things - Sten was not Fereldan, not even human, and she couldn't expect him to act the way her other companions would.

What would Father have done? she wondered, picking at the frayed edge of her tunic. Have him executed, probably. He'd done that with a man who killed one of the night watchmen, when she was sixteen. She'd watched the execution despite Mother's protests, because Father had said she would command the garrison one day, and one day she might have to make a hard decision. If only he'd known.

It's one thing to kill a man in battle, pup, he'd told her, grim-faced. Another to slit the throat of his brother while on watch. He died well, and his debt is repaid.

But what did you do when the man in question was already in your debt? It seemed a pretty poor way to repay a rescuer, but she was thinking as a Fereldan. Maybe to the Qunari it didn't matter. Either way she would hide her misgivings and do what needed to be done.


	14. Trials

The Gauntlet was an odd name for what the Temple of Andraste actually was - though Eilin supposed, if she were the poetic type, she could equate its trials with being besieged on all sides. She certainly felt battered enough, and not just physically.

_It's almost over_, she reminded herself as she marched ahead grimly, boots crunching on ice and bones and Maker-knows what else. No more disappearing bridges, no more riddles and no more ghosts of the past.

"Can you smell that?" Leliana whispered when their party reached another door.

Eilin halted, frowning. "What?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, the scent caught up to her - the unmistakeable smell of acrid smoke.

"Fire?" she wondered. The smell reminded her vaguely of Kinloch Hold, and of the rage demon they'd encountered there months ago.

Great, because demons were _exactly_ what she needed right now.

Drawing her sword, she squared her shoulders and kicked the door open, striding into the next room - then almost dropped her blade as searing heat washed over her.

A wall of flames roared not ten feet from the doorway, covering from one end of the enormous room to the other. The chamber beyond stretched as far as the eye could see, and she caught glimpses of sunlight glittering on ice-encrusted columns, and an enormous statue. This was the final room - Andraste's ashes were here, and they were just beyond her reach.

Eilin bit back a curse and slumped, lowering her sword. Puzzles she could do, but she was defeated by fire. And there were no switches that she could see - nothing but a stone altar between her and the flames.

She heard the footsteps of her companions catch up to her and their sounds of surprise when they saw the fire. Leliana brushed past her and bent to examine the altar.

"That could be problematic," Zevran commented.

"Check the walls," Eilin instructed him. "There has to be some mechanism to turn it off."

"As you wish."

Rubbing her forehead, she went to the other wall and ran her hands over the carved stone, pressing into the niches in the stone for some switch or trip mechanism.

"There has to be some way of turning it off," she repeated out loud, face inches from the wall. The stone was ice cold and her back hot from the fire. It was an odd, unsettling combination.

"Find anything?" Alistair said in her ear, making her jump.

"No." She sighed and turned around, resting her back against the wall and not bothering to hide her emotion. "We've come so far...the ashes are on the other side, I'm sure of it. And it's just, this..." she waved a hand at the flames.

"I know."

"Eilin," Leliana called. "Come and see this."

Squeezing Alistair's arm, she slipped around him and approached the altar. Leliana was examining the carvings closely, tracing them with her fingers as if to memorize the words.

"Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit," the bard read aloud. "King and slave, lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker's sight." She glanced up. "Another riddle?"

"King and slave, lord and beggar, what do they have in common?" Eilin said, with an impatient sigh. "They're humans - no, not always - um...they are people, people have...minds, bodies...bodies? Something to do with the body?" She glanced at Alistair, who shrugged.

"That is but one part," Zevran pointed out. "Cast off the...trappings...it sounds like a cage, or a...how do you say? Restraint."

"No, trappings are...adornments." Eilin frowned, tapping her fingers against her chin. "Equipment...dress..." she paused halfway through her pacing, and bent over the altar, reading the inscription again.

_Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker's sight._

Surely it couldn't mean- her eyes flicked upwards to squint at the wall of flames cutting off the chamber.

"Touch me with fire that I might be cleansed," she muttered.

Suddenly she wanted to do nothing more than sit down and blubber like a child.

"What?" Leliana said, raising her eyebrows, then her mouth dropped open. "Oh! Surely you don't think-"

Eilin groaned and cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Alistair, who was still examining a wall, and Zevran, who was waiting with his arms crossed. "I suppose I don't have any choice."

She reached for her belt and unbuckled it as quickly as possible, laying both sword and dagger on the floor, and began to unlace her pauldrons. Zevran glanced up at the sound of hard leather clattering on the stone, only to be met with Eilin tugging on the straps of her breastplate and bodice.

"I know it is hot right now, dear Warden, but perhaps-"

Leliana shook her head and waved him over. They spoke in low voices that Eilin blocked out, intent on removing her boots and scarf. She was starting to shiver, gooseflesh sweeping over her arms and legs.

She was unlacing her padded jacket when Alistair turned around and said, "Maker's breath! What are you doing?"

Eilin looked up, fingers shaking as she shrugged off her jacket. The others were now in various states of undress, except for Alistair.

"What in the name of..." he trailed off, staring at Eilin as she turned her back on him and pulled her tunic over her head.

"The Gauntlet wants us to walk naked through a wall of flames so we can be born anew in the Maker's sight," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "You know, if you're going to stare, can you at least look guilty? Or amazed. Either works for me."

Shivering violently, she tugged her pants off and stood hopping from one foot to the other, cursing under her breath.

"Leliana," she said. "Do you think smallclothes are considered worldly trappings?"

"I'd say so," the bard replied. She'd already dispensed with her smalls and didn't trouble to cover herself. A move that Eilin envied - for all her skinniness and the scars gifted by Howe's soldiers, it was a confidence she lacked.

Eilin sighed, and pulled at the laces tying her smallclothes at each hip. "Just one request? If you write a ballad about our quest, kindly replace this part with a ferocious battle. Preferably with a very frightening monster."

"As you say."

With the last of her 'trappings' gone, Eilin approached the fire, flinching as the heat seared her skin. And she was supposed to walk through that?

Andraste was burned alive, she reminded herself. You can handle jumping through a fire.

She plunged into the flames, squeezing her eyes shut - but there was nothing but heat and her skin tingling unbearably, and then she was on the other side with a rush of cold air raising gooseflesh on her arms and legs, and wondering if it was really all that necessary to be naked in this type of weather. Just another trial of the Gauntlet, she supposed.


	15. Pragmatic

"_Absolutely not!_" Alistair said heatedly, and banged his tankard on the table. "Tell me you're joking. _Please_."

"Oh, do speak up," Morrigan said. Resting her chin in one hand, she flicked him a look of contempt. "There may have been dwarves in Dust Town that did not hear you."

Eilin raised a hand, cutting off Alistair's angry retort. "I'm not joking, and Morrigan's right - keep your voice down."

"But you -"

"I've thought about this a lot," she interrupted him, sharper than she meant to; the smell of the dwarven ale gave her a headache and the smoky tavern air wasn't helping. That, and the constant background noise of dusters caterwauling some song about a magical nug, of all things.

She leaned in closer, lowering her own voice. "This trip Bhelen wants us to undertake could cost us weeks, and that's time we don't have. Not to mention the possibility that some of us may not return at all. For now we're somewhat safe in Orzammar, but we can't stay here."

Morrigan raised one eyebrow. "Safe, you say?" Her free hand tapped a steady tattoo on the rough wood table. "This dwarven King of yours lets us be because we are useful to him. You know this, I hope."

"I'm aware," Eilin said shortly. "For now we're not bothered by Loghain's men or bandits, and if the price to pay for a little more peace is a few of Harrowmont's fanatics, well...I'm sure we can handle it."

Wynne nodded slowly, expression thoughtful. "It seems a sound idea," she murmured. "Am I to assume I will be accompanying to the Deep Roads?"

"I am going to the Deep Roads, yes," Eilin said, "but Morrigan, Shale and Zevran will be accompanying me. You, Sten and Leliana will be seeking out the Dalish. Alistair will lead you, and I'd like you to treat him as if he were me."

"What?" Alistair said, suddenly and quietly. She'd turned away from him to talk to Wynne, but she heard the surprise in his voice and knew his expression would match it. He was never very good at hiding his emotions. "_Me?_ Lead? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead."

Eilin raised an eyebrow, and let the silence stretch for long enough to become uncomfortable.

"Do you refuse?" she asked finally.

"I-I'm not refusing anything, I just...we were -"

"It sounded like a refusal to me."

"I think that is something best discussed between you two," Wynne said, as Alistair's frown deepened. "Why don't you two take a walk?"

Some small, contrary part of her mind wanted to refuse, to have it out with him in front of their group. But how childish was that? It would accomplish nothing but make what little authority she had even more tenuous. Wynne had a knack for gauging the situation, and it wasn't the first time her advice had gotten Eilin out of a tight spot. So she stood, sighing, and gestured for Alistair to follow.

The entire city was always lit by the dull glow coming off the river of lava hundreds of feet below the walkways. It was impossible to tell the time, for one used to sleeping under the stars. The water clock in the middle of the commons was beyond her comprehension, but logically she knew it was evening - the streets were empty and the taverns full, and the light only reached so far.

Eilin marched across the street without checking if he followed her, stopping near an empty market stall, and turned to face him. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?"

He looked flushed, but that was hardly a surprise. He'd had at least half a tankard.

"What do you think?" he snapped. "I thought we were both going to the Deep Roads. Or I assumed we all would be going together. And then you go and...spring that on me, how was I supposed to react?"

"We've wasted too much time here already," Eilin replied, shaking her head. "We've been here over a week playing dwarven politics, while the Blight's getting worse. Who knows how far it's spread now? And at any rate, it makes no sense for all of us to -"

"Oh, I don't know. What about the fact that the Deep Roads are _crawling with darkspawn? _Did you ever consider that?"

She usually found his sarcastic tone amusing, even when directed at her, but with the size of her headache even the sweetest tones ground on her nerves. Swallowing her temper, she fixed him with a heated glare.

"I am trying to make a practical decision, Alistair. I'm supposed to do what's best for everyone. I don't want to risk the lives of our entire party on a venture that may not even be worth the trouble."

"Risk all our lives, or just mine?"

_Blast it. _"All of our lives. But I can't say that you and your - you know - didn't affect my decision."

"Why?" Alistair said incredulously. "Why would you do that to me? You know how people treat me - my whole life, it's caused me nothing but problems. You know that."

"I did it because even if you don't end up being king, you are still more important than me in the scheme of things." Eilin jabbed a finger at his chest for emphasis. "Alistair, you can't get away from your blood, so it's useless to try. You also know you need to be prepared for the possibility of being the heir to the throne. Even if you don't want it," she added, raising a hand as he made an indignant sound. "_Even if you never become king_, you are still a Grey Warden, and Ferelden needs its Grey Wardens and its kings."

"But I - "

"Do you want to end this Blight, or not?"

"Yes," he said, quietly.

"And what if something goes wrong in the Deep Roads, and both of us die? Who's going to fight the darkspawn then, hm? I suppose the entire country can wait for the Orlesians to realise we've gone silent. What's a few thousand more deaths?" When he said nothing, she drew closer. "_We don't have the time_."

She'd been expecting the anger in his expression, and the disappointment soon after. But he suddenly pulled her to him, all but crushing her in a rather painful embrace, leather and splintmail scraping together with an unpleasant sound.

"I don't want to lose you," he said into her hair.

Eilin closed her eyes, her cheek pressed against his, and sighed. There it was. That was the part she'd been trying to avoid thinking about, for fear it would influence her decision.

How easy it would be to say yes. To have him walk into the deep with him by her side. A constant, steady presence she relied on far more than she should.

_But a leader thinks of those they are responsible for first and of themselves second_, she thought, so Eilin pulled away.

"I'll be fine," she said softly. She could tell he didn't really believe her - even when her lips touched his, unmindful of the curious stares of passersby. "We'll both be. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can meet up again."

Sighing, Alistair rubbed both hands over his face, sending his short hair askew.

"Fine," he muttered. "On one condition." When she said nothing, he took her by the shoulders. "_Never _tell me that you're not as important as I am. Alright?"

"But I'm n-"

"You keep all of us going," he insisted. "You keep me going, and you make me..." he paused, brow furrowing. "You make me...uh.."

"Angry?" she suggested with a grin.

"Well, yes. Sometimes. Alright, alright, I'm only joking," he added hastily, as she gave him a withering look. "You make me stronger, and you know I love you for it. I just wish that we'd -" he stopped suddenly, and rubbed the back of his neck again. "That we'd had the chance to - "

"To...what?" she asked, puzzled. "We still have some time before tomorrow, so go ahead and do whatever you need to."

"Uh, right. I'll do that."

_I have a feeling I'm missing something_, she thought, casting him a furtive glance as he headed back to the tavern. He'd seemed more hesitant than usual for a moment, like he wanted to ask her something important...

"Enjoy your fungus drink," she called out from across the street, and received a grimace in return.

"Oh, you just had to remind me, didn't you? Great. Thanks."

Eilin watched him until he disappeared inside the tavern. For a moment she longed to go back inside and join the rest of her companions; drinking, conversation, maybe even just sitting with him for a while...but she knew it was getting late, and there was a lot to do.

_Always duty, if nothing else,_ she reminded herself, and headed for the Royal Palace.


	16. Solace

She was used to cold nights in camp with nothing but a few rough blankets and a canvas tent to keep out the wind, so the rooms in Orzammar's royal palace were almost too hot. Too hot to sleep, or so she told herself. She knew the real reason sleep eluded her, and she didn't want to admit it.

The others had gone to Tapsters with the exception of Morrigan and Wynne; convinced by that dwarf Oghren that it was somehow a good idea. Not that Eilin disagreed exactly, but she was too jittery to relax and dwarven ale made her sick. Instead she'd spent the night in her room with the quiet and the warmth and her own thoughts. She had nothing else to do - her armour and blades were polished to a brilliant sheen, she'd packed and re-packed her things more times than she could count, and she'd re-braided her hair until it was a tangled mess. Tomorrow she would be heading to the Deep Roads with one half of her party, and the other half were seeking out the Dalish.

Alistair was not going with her.

All week she'd been trying to convince herself it was for the best. Alistair was far less likely to be killed by Dalish elves than darkspawn (though that point was still up for debate), and it was the the most practical decision.

It wasn't working out like she'd planned. Part of her wanted him by her side, and it was that part she was trying to quash. It should have been easy to choose between her attachment and his life, and she was ashamed at how difficult it had been.

The door creaked and she stopped in mid-pace, glancing back over her shoulder. She caught a flash of gold and red before Alistair poked his head into the room.

"Am I disturbing you?" he asked quietly.

Eilin shook her head and beckoned him inside. He glanced furtively over his shoulder before shutting the door and approached her, lurching a little. She smiled. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I did." He tugged at the collar of his shirt, grimacing. "The dwarf - Oghren, Maker he can drink. Do you think it's a good idea to take him with you?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," she reminded him, folding her arms. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I suppose." Alistair shrugged, and a slight smile curled his lips. "I was hoping you were still awake. I wanted to talk to you first."

The odd note in his voice made her suspicious, and she was suddenly struck by how nervous he looked.

"This isn't about what I said earlier, was it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because my decision hasn't changed."

"Oh, no. I...agree with what you said." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging again. "It wasn't really fair of me to second-guess you. So far you've been fair-minded, and far more practical than me."

"So far," she agreed, with the hint of a smile. "Spill your guts, then. Not literally, of course, not unless you really want to."

There were beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, she noticed suddenly, and frowned as a stab of anxiety went through her. "Alistair, is something wrong? You didn't stab a noble or get kicked out of Tapster's, did you? No-one ate Schmooples?"

"Maker's breath, no," he said falteringly. "It's not anything bad or frightening." There was a blush burning across his cheeks, which only added to her confusion. "Look...um...I love you. You know that, right?"

"Yes..." Eilin raised her eyebrows. "You know how ominous that sounds, don't you?"

"Right. Uh, well, I love you, and I've been thinking since the last time we talked, about how we'd never really -" Alistair cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, and groaned. "Oh, Maker's breath, I'll just say it. I want to spend the night with you."

"I-pardon?"

He was bright red now, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I want to-uh. Well, do you remember when we talked about it - that-and we said we'd wait because it wasn't the right time?" When she nodded, he continued in a rush. "I just-we're both separating tomorrow, and we'll be going through a lot of danger, and I don't know if we'll ever...if I'll ever..."

The slight tremble in her hands betrayed her as she stepped closer, reaching up to comb her fingers through his hair.

"I see your point."

"Of course, if you don't want to -"

"I do want to," she said.

"And, well, I don't want to pressure you into anything you don't-"

"Alistair," Eilin interrupted, and gave his hair a gentle tug. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Is that enough of a 'yes' for you, or should I repeat myself some more?"

His composure broke; relief flooded his expression. "Well. I, uh...maybe I should just stop talking."

Tightening her fingers in his hair, she pulled his face gently down to hers.

"Normally I wouldn't agree," she murmured against his lips, "but I can think of other things I'd rather be doing right now."

The kiss reminded her a little of the first few times they'd snuck out of camp to catch an hour or two for themselves; his lips were warm and a little hesitant, his grip on her shoulders gentle. Eilin leaned into him, tilting her face up, sighing as his lips glided over hers. She could taste ale on his tongue, and when she nipped his bottom lip his quiet moan sent a shiver through her spine.

She was reaching for the laces on his shirt when he pulled back, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Alistair nodded. His hands had moved from her shoulders to her hips, digging into the soft flesh a little roughly.

"I just-I want this to...be good for you as well," he said with a nervous chuckle. "You know I haven't really done anything like this, with anyone."

"That makes two of us," Eilin said, smiling. Before he could reply she slid her free hand down his stomach and slipped under the hem of his shirt. He jumped at the touch of her fingers, and let out an embarrassed laugh. "Ticklish, are we?"

"Oh, please don't. I'd rather not spend the night writhing in laughter and making an utter fool of myself."

"I'll have to make sure you're writhing in pleasure instead, won't I?"

His eyes widened, and he made a sort of startled sound in the back of his throat. She took advantage of his momentary surprise to hitch up the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

It wasn't the first time she'd seen him without clothing. That mortifying incident in the Gauntlet counted, even if she had been trying to cover herself and dress at the same time.

He was a handsome man, and up close she thought him beautiful - hard muscle and tanned skin criss-crossed with bruises and scars, evidence of his years of training in the chantry.

She kicked the discarded shirt aside and kissed the hollow of his throat, smiling at the jump of his pulse against her lips. Still, he did nothing.

Frowning, she drew back and looked hard at him. "Alistair, are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I'm just a little nervous."

Eilin's shoulders drooped and she quickly swallowed her sigh, willing herself to be patient. It wasn't fair to rush him.

"Come here," she murmured, and lead him to the bed. He sat and she seated herself next to him, slinging one arm over his shoulders. "We don't have to rush anything, alright? This is supposed to be fun for both of us. Relax."

"Easy for you to say." Alistair grinned wryly. "We've barely begun, and already you've wrested away my shirt."

"Well, I'm happy to even things up." She shifted, pulling her nightdress over her thighs, and began to undo the laces on her bodice. "We'll both have to lose the clothes sometime."

Alistair gave her a serious look, like he wasn't sure if she was joking or not.

"Are you sure? You don't have to just because I -"

"I don't mind." The loosened fabric of her bodice was drooping lower and lower, and she wondered if her nightclothes were far too thin already - lucky it was only Alistair, and she was bound to do this sometime. Still, nervousness overtook her and her hands slipped on the knots. She cursed under her breath.

"You're blushing," Alistair said.

"Can't I be nervous too?"

The knot came undone, and with a deep breath she pulled the nightdress over her head.

Alistair's eyes immediately went to her breasts, and Eilin let out a nervous giggle, putting one hand to her reddening cheek.

"Like what you see?" she asked, after a few moments passed in silence.

He dragged his gaze back to her face, and grinned sheepishly. "You wouldn't be angry if I said yes, would you?"

"I'd be a little miffed if you said no, if I was honest. A girl likes to know her looks are appreciated."

"All of you is appreciated, believe me." He drew her closer, scooting back onto the bed as she climbed into his lap. "Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

"You might have mentioned it once or twice." Smiling, she kissed his nose. "Now we're even, right?"

"Right." Eilin sighed as his free hand gently cupped her breast, thumb brushing back and forth against her nipple. "Is this alright?"

"Mmm-hmm. Keep going."

There was one thing about Alistair - he was a fast learner, and he responded well to instruction. His touch was different from Dairren's rough clumsiness; tentative at first then firmer, a little clumsy but always gentle.

They ended up entwined between rumpled sheets and she'd been enjoying the delicious warmth of his body pressed against hers and the sighs her touch drew from him, when an idea came to her. She hooked a leg over his and rolled him onto his back, leaning her weight on his wrists to pin him in place.

He was more than strong enough to overcome her, yet he lay still, and the twitch of his hips against hers made her bold.

"What are you doing?" he murmured, half-laughing as her hair tickled his face.

"Trying something new," Eilin whispered, and tilted his head back with a gentle nudge. "Just...lie back and enjoy it."

There were scars all over him, fresh and old, and she memorized them with tongue and fingers, tracing and stroking every part of him she could reach, thighs brushing his sides. One hand traced the contours of his stomach, lean muscle and soft hair, and he murmured something that might have been her name into his shoulder, his hands stroking one of her thighs.

With her free hand she tugged at the laces on his pants, pulling the material down perhaps a little rougher than necessary, and slithered down his body.

"Oh...you're-" A strangled gasp swallowed the rest of his sentence as she pressed the heel of her hand against his cock.

She brought him to her mouth and he lifted his hips, fingers tangled in her hair. He was hot, almost burning in the palm of her hand, and she felt every shudder her tongue forced from him.

"Eilin, please - I can't -"

"It's alright," she said, glancing up. He was flushed, sweating, eyes glinting warm hazel in the dim light, and she closed her mouth over his cock just to see his head fall back against the pillow.

It wasn't something she'd done before, though Dairren had spoken briefly of the possibility, and she'd overheard a prostitute in Denerim - and if truth be told, spent the weeks since trying to imagine how it would be. But oh, how sweet it was to see Alistair - funny, lovely, gentle Alistair - with his head thrown back and his hands fisted in the sheets, panting and arching his hips against her hand and mouth. Her pulse hammered wildly, and unable to stop herself, she slid her free hand beneath her smallclothes, murmuring low at the first brush of her fingers. Alistair's breaths were little more than gasps, punctuated with groans as she sped up the pace, and his hands tightened in her hair.

"Eilin - I - " he cut himself off with a groan and shuddered beneath her, hips lifting to meet her mouth pressing down hard around him.

Eilin remained where she was for a few moments, then disentangled herself and rolled over to reach the mug and pitcher on the bedside table. She could feel his eyes on her as she took a few sips of water, grateful that the position hid her grimace.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, as she turned to face him, crossing her legs beneath her. He'd raised himself up on his elbows, and his face was redder than she'd ever seen it. "I thought I could...hold on for longer."

"I didn't expect you to," she replied, smiling. She crawled up the bed and lay beside him, kissing his forehead. "We have the whole night, remember? And it's my turn, anyway."

"Your...turn?"

"That's right." Rolling onto her back, she shimmied out of her smallclothes, dropping them on the floor.

He looked nervous all of a sudden. "I don't-what do you like? How do I...?"

"It's alright. I'll teach you everything you need to know." Eilin hooked one leg over his hip and guided his hand between her legs, smiling at the pleasant surprise in his expression.

"You're-"

She sighed as his fingers pressed deeper, and shifted her hips. "It makes things easier for us." One finger eased inside, and another, and she sighed, curling her fingers against his bicep. "Yes, just like that."

"Like that?"

"You're doing great." Eilin reached between their bodies and covered his hand with hers. "Here, stroke your thumb just in this spot. This is how women gain their pleasure, by a man's hand or their own."

He paused, eyes flicking to her face. "You mean-"

"It's not a bad thing, Alistair, it's normal." His thumb circled, pressing gently, and she closed her eyes with a shuddering breath. "Yes. Just like that. Don't stop!"

Her head fell back as he applied what she'd shown him with vigour, and through the haze of pleasure she had the feeling he enjoyed seeing her like this - hands clutching at his arms, pressing her face into his neck to muffle cries of pleasure, grinding hard against his hand while warmth rushed through her all the way to her toes.

"Yes," she gasped into his neck; just one more flick of his fingers, just a little more...

His fingers curled and that was enough; the climax hit her hard, her muscles convulsing and toes curling. He pressed his forehead to hers and kissed her again and again while she shuddered and shook. Hips arching, she rode out the waves of pleasure until her muscles went limp and she fell back against the pillows.

Alistair was watching her with some measure of amusement, and his smile was a little smug as he brushed her hair back.

"That was-" he stopped, shaking his head. "I never even imagined women could..."

Eilin laughed breathlessly and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

"I might surprise you," she whispered. "Just you wait."

"You've already surprised me." He looked slightly dazed, leaning on one elbow and gazing down into her face. "I had no idea this would be so..."

"Pleasurable?"

"Well, yes, but...I just hadn't really imagined much beyond the basics."

"There are many things we can do together. The most important part is both of us enjoys it."

She sighed, warm and content, and curled up against him. They lay for a few minutes, holding each other in the dim light.

"I love you," she said into his chest.

Alistair chuckled into her hair. "Was I that good?"

"No! I mean, yes you were, but...that's not why I said it." She raised her head, smiling. "I can't imagine doing this without you. I mean, not this, but...everything, these past months. You mean a great deal to me, and I know we'll see each other again after we finish our business with the dwarves and the Dalish. I just...love you so much, and I'll always love you. No matter what happens."

His expression softened, and he tipped her chin up to meet his lips.

The kiss was gentle at first, like always, but she was still sensitive after her climax, and he didn't need much encouragement for it to turn into a slow exploration.

Eventually she pulled him down on top of her, sliding her legs over his until he was settled between her thighs.

"Ready?"

He nodded, still hovering a little uncertainly above her, and he was still as she reached down and guided him in.

A shiver ran through her as she eased him inside, and his expression froze in surprise and wonder.

"Oh, Maker," he said in a half-whisper, and she shivered again. Tentatively he moved his hips forward, and Eilin jerked as pain stabbed through her.

Immediately he stilled, catching sight of her grimace, and frowned. "Am I hurting you?"

"Just...let me get adjusted," she said through gritted teeth.

She'd wept through most of her first time, and even now the memories of that pain made her nervous...surely, surely the second time couldn't be that bad? She pressed her face to Alistair's neck and lifted herself off the bed, hooking both legs around his waist. "Try again."

This time the angle was perfect. She sighed as he slipped inside her, pulling him down until they pressed skin to skin, and the tension began to coil in her belly again, building with each thrust and each gentle caress of his hands; his lips hot on hers and his murmurs and quiet groans. She let him set the pace, slow at first and growing faster as his touch became firmer, until sweat beaded on her skin and her breaths became ragged.

His teeth bit down on her shoulder - not painfully, but hard enough that she jumped. Then his hand was sliding over her hip and between her legs.

It was too much; the pressure was unbearable, and the flick of his fingers sent heat sweeping through her limbs. The cry burst from her before she could stop herself, and she was panting and shaking against him when his sides tensed under the clench of her thighs. A groan vibrated through his chest a split second later, his head falling heavily upon her shoulder.

Eilin draped her legs over his thighs and slid a hand up the back of his neck, kneading the muscles gently. She felt every inch of him with her strained senses, aftershocks of his climax sending little bolts of pleasure through her thighs and stomach, and she disentangled herself gently, rolling over to the bedside table to retrieve a damp cloth. Once she'd cleaned herself up she lay back down and he brushed her sweaty hair back, kissing her forehead.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." She stretched languidly. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Eilin laughed, and pulled the sheet up over them both. He lay on his back and she curled up against him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder.

"Eilin?"

"Yes?" she mumbled. His finger slowly traced circles on her back, which only made it harder to concentrate.

"Why did you put me in charge of seeking out the Dalish?"

Reluctantly she lifted her head, shaking the curls out of her eyes.

"Because you're perfectly capable of leading, and because I trust you above all others. Why is this a question?"

Alistair didn't respond to the sharpness in her tone; he knew her far too well by now.

"Alright," he said, and she lay back down. She was drifting off fast now, warm and happy, and tomorrow seemed very far away.


	17. Unearthed

Clarity returned to her in the feeling of rocks digging into her back and the smell of sulphur and decay. After a week of darkness, the light of the campfire seemed too harsh, even muted by the tent flap. She covered her face with one arm, wincing, and rolled onto her side.

"Ah, you are awake."

The familiar presence of Morrigan was oddly comforting; the rustle of feathers, creak of leather and the scent of lyrium and something tart she couldn't identify.

"Morrigan," Eilin said, if only to test her voice. "Wh-what-"

"You were bitten," Morrigan said, and brushed Eilin's hair back to feel her forehead. "You seem to have shaken off the worst of the fever. Your tainted blood rendered you immune to the spider's corruption, I imagine."

Eilin closed her eyes, shuddering as the memory returned to her - a hairy body knocking her to the ground; the glint of far too many eyes, and fangs biting deep into her thigh. Pain like fire burning in her blood.

"I hate this place," she muttered.

"As do I." Morrigan offered her the skin of water resting by her bedroll. "As far as I am concerned, we cannot find this woman quickly enough."

"I miss food that's not made of dried nug and lichen," Eilin said, after she'd taken a sip of water. She rose up on one elbow, pulling the blankets up around her chest, and pulled her hair over one shoulder with her free hand. "I miss sunlight. And the others."

"By the others you mean that fool Alistair." Morrigan's expression was stern but for the slight smirk playing around her lips.

She shrugged. "Well, yes. He is counted among the others. Should I not miss him too?"

"Fine, be coy if you must." Without preamble Morrigan hitched up the blanket, making Eilin shiver as the cooler air hit her bare skin. She knew how Morrigan was, though, and let her work without complaint.

"He must be pleasant enough in bed, surely," the witch said as she began to cut the bandages from Eilin's thigh. "I cannot imagine you miss his conversation."

Eilin felt her cheeks begin to burn. "I - I never said -"

_Oh, blast and damnation, did they overhear us? Surely not through stone walls. _"How did you -"

"Your blushing cheeks betray you," Morrigan pointed out, "and so do the longing glances you and him exchange as of late."

Eilin snorted. "And here I thought I was being subtle."

"'Tis a bit sickening to watch, but it keeps your mind off our present situation, so...I suppose I shall have to endure."

"Your noble sacrifice will not be forgotten," Eilin said dryly, pleased when she laughed. As Morrigan secured the fresh bandage, Eilin began to sit up, then fell back as a wave of dizziness engulfed her. "Alright...I think I'd better stay put."

"A sound idea." Morrigan reached for her pack and pulled out a vial full of a viscous, dark green potion. "Drink this."

"Do I even want to know what's in it?" Eilin tossed the cork aside and forced down the potion, grimacing as the bitter liquid burned its way down her throat. "Urgh! Maker's breath! Is it a law that all potions have to taste so vile?"

Morrigan shrugged. "Complain if you must, but unless you would rather be in pain..." She began to gather her things. "Get some rest, Warden. We will be moving on once you are strong enough to walk."

"To the Anvil of the Void," Eilin said grimly.

"Yes." The witch flicked open the tent flap and glanced back over her shoulder. "Tis something to look forward to, if only to get this foolish endeavour over with."

Once she was alone, Eilin pulled the blankets up to her chest and lay down, sighing.

She did miss Alistair.

She missed the others too; Leliana with her quick wit and teasing, and Wynne with her warm smile. She even missed Sten, as odd as that was to admit. But she found her thoughts straying to Alistair constantly, especially with the hundreds of miles that separated them.

It was silly, and she knew that. Sending him to the Dalish had been the right decision. It was difficult not to regret it alone and cold in her tent. Especially after the...

Hespith's decaying face came to mind, and she closed her eyes to will away the images. She didn't want to think about what the poor wretch had led them to.

Eilin shifted, trying to ease the throbbing in her leg. Her head felt oddly heavy and fuzzy, and she wondered what was in that potion. Something to help her sleep, no doubt.

She hoped it would be a dreamless sleep. She could do without the nightmares, just for one night.


	18. Caution to the Wind

The camp was quiet and dark, the only light from the campfire kept constantly stoked to provide heat through the increasingly cold nights.

Alistair knew Sten was on first watch, and he could see the Qunari poking at the fire with his usual scowl. The others were in their tents, that he knew of - but he wouldn't put it past Zevran to be sneaking around. And Morrigan, well...who knew if witches slept like normal people? He didn't want to think about the look she'd give him if she caught him circling Eilin's tent like a mabari closing in on its prey. Her normal glares were icy enough.

It wasn't like he'd suddenly gotten into the habit of lurking near her tent, but he wanted to see Eilin without the others around, and instead he was outside worrying about what the rest of their party might think. And he didn't even know why - if they hadn't figured it out yet, they would soon enough. In fact, he was pretty sure Leliana and Zevran knew, and between them nothing was sacred.

This was the only time he remembered being grateful that only Sten was on watch tonight - the Qunari paid Alistair no heed as he finally stopped pacing and headed for Eilin's tent, and strangely enough it made him feel a lot less...sneaky.

Eilin was sitting on her bedroll reading a book when he poked his head inside.

"Can I come in?" he asked tentatively. She was wearing her undertunic, and her blanket was tucked around her lap. She looked content, and he almost felt bad for disturbing her.

But then she smiled and said, "Of course you can," and sufficiently encouraged, Alistair ducked his head under the tent flap.

Tents were far too small for this sort of thing, he thought as he shuffled forward on his knees, and hers was cluttered enough as it is. What did one do in a space barely big enough for one person? It was almost too cramped unless they were to sit on each other, and...well, he was trying valiantly not to think about that.

She put her book aside and unwrapped the blankets from her waist, and he saw she was wearing only her smallclothes underneath. That was enough to give him pause.

"I didn't realise - uh -"

"It's fine," Eilin said, and watched him quietly as he removed his boots and sat beside her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, pressing her face into his shirt, and put her arms around his neck.

Even in the dim light it was easy to see the dark circles under her eyes; he suspected he looked much the same. He knew she didn't sleep easily - if the number of nights he heard her tossing and turning were any indication - and it would only get worse from here.

Her fingers traced a slow, lazy pattern on his back, making him shiver in his thin shirt.

"You know," she said. "It's a pity we didn't stay in town for longer."

"Because we'd have space?" He tried not to show too much of his disappointment.

"We'd have more space. But I suppose we'll just have to work with what we have."

Her lips found his mouth, then his cheek, and trailed to his earlobe, where a scrape of her teeth sent bolts of pleasure through him. "We'd have to be quieter than last time."

"Very, very quiet," Alistair agreed. She bit down on his earlobe, and he pressed his face to her neck to smother the sound he made. Her hand slid under his shirt, tracing the outline of a scar, and the gentle scrape of her nails made his muscles jump.

"It would be rather difficult. But if you're up to the challenge..."

Alistair leaned in to kiss the soft skin of her neck, and when his teeth gently closed down on a spot under her jaw, she sighed.

"I'm willing to give it a shot," he murmured against her skin. "If you are, that is."

After, when they'd caught their breath and cooled somewhat, they lay together in the tangle of rough blankets, listening to the sound of the wind rustling outside.

"I hope you make this a habit," Eilin murmured, nuzzling his neck.

"What, sneaking into your tent every night? Well, it's certainly worth it."

She grinned up at him, and he kissed her forehead. "You know Morrigan would have my head if she caught me, right?"

"Morrigan can get over it," Eilin said, so impatiently Alistair rose up on one elbow and stared at her.

"But if Zevran - "

"Not his business."

"What about Lel - "

"Not hers either."

"Wynne - "

"They're going to find out sooner or later." Eilin sat up, clutching the blankets around her shoulders. "I don't care. I really don't. And I don't understand why you do, either."

"You're our leader," Alistair said, and drew her back down. "Don't you think the others would...well...think it was special treatment?"

"But it's not. Well, I suppose you could call it that if you like, but - "

"No, that's not what I meant." He rolled his eyes. "I just meant we should probably keep being discreet. It's not like the others need to know."

Eilin shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. "Well, I wasn't planning on shouting it over the hills." She sighed. "But alright. I see your point."

"I knew you would." Alistair tugged her toward him. "Now show me how you did that trick again."

"What, right now? What ever happened to being discreet?"

"I'll be in and out before dawn," Alistair said. Eilin giggled, and he gave her a withering look. "Oh, don't even start."


	19. Silk and Shadows

Alistair woke with warmth and darkness pressing down on him.

For one fleeting moment he thought he was in his tent, but there was a soft bed under him that creaked when he moved, and it was warm. So very warm. He felt languid and heavy-eyed, for once not torn from sleep by the taint throbbing in his blood. He'd been dreaming instead of his last night in Orzammar with Eilin; memories of sweat-soaked hair and hot breath on his skin, and the way she'd felt under him and around him. He was still half-dreaming, even now he could feel a hand moving across his belly, nails scraping gently and deft fingers pressing in just the right place. And - oh, _Maker_ - her tongue traced around his navel and he lifted off the bed unconsciously, willing it to go lower, lower...

Tension clutching at his belly, his hand crept under the blankets, only to be halted by a gentle grip on his wrist and a whisper in his ear.

"Lie still."

Warm lips touched his neck. Squinting, he could just barely make out the tangle of her hair and the curve of her cheek in the moonlight filtering through the window.

"Alright, I'm awake now," he murmured, breath hitching as her tongue swirled around his earlobe.

"Good," Eilin said, laughing softly. She hovered above him, her nightdress brushing his sides.

"Won't Arl Eamon - the others - hear us?" he asked. His hands clutched at her hips of their own accord, digging into the soft flesh as her teeth scraped his nipple.

"That depends."

"On what?" Alistair ground out.

Her voice was a breathy whisper against his chest. "On how quiet you can be."

They shouldn't be doing this, they really shouldn't be, not in Arl Eamon's home, but he was finding it hard to concentrate with her mouth moving lower and lower. Surely she wasn't going to-

"Shh," Eilin whispered as he groaned. "Not another sound, or I'll leave."

"Wicked woman."

"What did I say?" but she lowered her head, hair tickling his thighs, and he bit down hard on his hand.

_This is different to being...joined_, he thought, _surely this isn't something that people do, is it really?_ The thought and the stab of guilt that followed it fled in the wake of her soft tongue and the way she - he muffled his groan in a fistful of sheets. Maker, he wasn't going to last much longer with the way she was going...and then her mouth clamped around him and he was lost. He thrust hard against her, his climax dragging a heavy groan from deep in his chest, heart thundering in its wake.

Shuddering, he fell back against the pillows, and felt her chuckle against his inner thigh.

"Maker's breath," he managed, shivering as she kissed his hip and crawled back up the bed.

"My gift to you." She was smiling as she touched her lips to his, briefly and sweetly, before laying down beside him. "You looked like you could use it."

"Mmm-hmm." He was drifting, heavy-limbed and warm, content with the familiar feeling of her leg thrown over his and her hair tickling his chin. She touched her lips to his collarbone and traced around one nipple with a calloused finger.

"Eilin?"

"Yes?" She sounded content, voice husky and low and vibrating through his collarbone.

"Do you think we'll...win? At the Landsmeet tomorrow?"

She was silent for a moment, then she rose up on one elbow. "That depends. There could be several outcomes. What would you prefer to happen?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But if we make it out alive, I suppose I'd call that a win."

"I suppose so," she agreed, and yawned. "Try not to worry about it. It's a game, and you just need to know how to play it."

"But I don't, and that's the problem."

Eilin lay back down, stroking his sweaty hair off his forehead. "That's what I'm here for. It just so happens that I do, and I play for keeps."

Alistair laughed softly. "That sounds like you."

"Do you expect anything less?" She tilted her face upwards and kissed his chin. "Go to sleep, my love. We'll face tomorrow when it comes."


	20. Malapropos

"Don't touch anything."

As always, Morrigan's voice made him bristle immediately, even if he was used to the contempt in her tone. Alistair closed the door and turned to face her, his chin lifted, and his expression as blank as he could manage it. It mustn't have worked, for Morrigan's thin eyebrows lifted.

"My, but you do look frightened, Alistair."

"Like a lamb being led to the slaughter," he said dryly.

"You had a choice." She picked up a potion bottle from the bedside table and uncorked it, downing the thick, dark liquid in one gulp. "You chose well. Most surprising."

"Yes, well, that remains to be seen."

He sat down on the bed and began to remove his boots. Morrigan's jewelry was already piled on the desk along with her gloves and boots and various other questionable-looking items; a few potion bottles, some feathers and what looked like a necklace made of bone and teeth. He didn't want to know whose teeth.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she undressed. She _was_ beautiful, he thought grudgingly, lithe and pale and curved, and he wondered if this was the first time she'd -ugh, now there was an image he didn't need.

Reluctantly he pulled his shirt off and scooted back to remove his pants, feeling more vulnerable than he'd ever been in his life. Morrigan approached the bed slowly, shaking her dark hair over her shoulders. The sway of her hips was a ruse to entice, but all he could think of was Eilin.

Perhaps Morrigan was unwilling to provoke him or perhaps - unlikely, but even so - she felt some measure of sympathy at the situation; she was quiet when she climbed over him. When she slid down onto him he swallowed his groan and closed his eyes. They shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't have agreed, but it was Eilin who'd asked him; Eilin who'd pleaded with the fear on her face sending chills through him.

_If I kill the archdemon, I die_, she'd said. _Is that what you want?_

He'd reassured her that no, it wasn't what he wanted; he wanted them to live, he wanted to be happy, to grow old together - as old as a Grey Warden gets, anyway. Seeing that expression on her face and knowing how much it cost her to ask made him feel sick.

He had no choice but _Maker_, did he hate himself for his body's reaction - the pleasure drawn from him at the heat and pressure of Morrigan clenching around him, the friction and tension building as she moved relentlessly. He tried to think of Eilin but the witch was too rough and too quiet, and her touch lacked warmth. Instead he turned his head into his shoulder and tried to block out the feeling of utter wrongness; disgust and desire - unwilling, unwanted; oh Maker, _so not wanted_, and made him burn with shame at every gasp forced out of him. Morrigan's thighs clamped around him, hips twisting and hands braced on his chest for support, the dim light throwing odd shadows on her naked body.

Shaking, he closed his eyes again and imagined it was Eilin leaning over him, her legs around him and her touches gentle, kissing him, whispering and giggling and moaning, rolling her hips and sliding down onto him slowly, teasingly -

"Thinking of your favourite Grey Warden?"

Eyes snapping open, Alistair glared up at her and wondered if she'd been smirking at him like that this whole time. Creepy.

"There is no need to glare at me so," Morrigan said, lifting her hair off the back of her neck. Her skin was coated with a sheen of sweat, as was his. "You think yourself the only one concerned for her?"

His lip curled. "Do we really have to talk about this right now? Can't we just get on with it?"

"As you wish." She rolled her hips and he twitched and clutched at the blankets. Laughing, she added, "I see thinking of her has some benefit, at least."

Alistair grabbed her wrists and pushed her off him, twisting until she was under him. The intimacy of the position repulsed him, but he held her in place. The grip on her wrists must have been uncomfortable, but she didn't move.

"Don't you dare talk about her," he said through clenched teeth. "Not when we're...just-just don't. Clear?"

"If it pleases you," Morrigan replied with a bored yawn. "Continue, then."

He set a pace as fast as he could stand, willing himself to give in to sensation and feeling rather than who was causing it. He was so close, so was she -at least it seemed that way, from her squirming and ragged breaths - and then he was shuddering and gasping and trying his hardest to stop the guttural, strangled sound that came out of him.

Then it was over, and he pulled away and fell back onto the bed. Morrigan remained where she was, raising up on her elbows to watch as he retrieved his clothes. She didn't trouble to cover herself.

Dragging clothes over hot and sticky skin was unpleasant to say in the least, but the alternative was walking down the hall naked. Bad enough being naked in front of Morrigan, worse in front of the entire castle.

"Alistair."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, willing himself to hold onto the last shred of patience he had left. "What?"

"Some things are worth preserving," she said. Her tone lacked its usual hard edge; she sounded regretful, if he thought her capable of such an emotion. "No matter how heavy the price paid."

"Easy for you to say," Alistair said with a raised eyebrow, "when it's not you paying it."

And he closed the door before she could speak again. He'd had enough of her for one night - more than enough, in fact.


	21. Necessity

Her hands were shaking and lashes wet with tears, but her eyes burned too much to keep scrubbing them dry. Her whole body ached, echoes of pain and an exhaustion that seeped into her bones. Grimacing, she wiped her face one more time and desperately wished for sleep to descend upon her. She couldn't help thinking it was the Maker's way of punishing her for what she'd just done.

Unwillingly her eyes strayed to the door, and a shiver ran through her. She wondered if he and Morrigan were still -

No. She would not think of it. But try as she might, her treacherous mind kept wandering back to the unwelcome images of pale skin on golden tan, long limbs and sweat.

"It was necessary," Eilin whispered, as if she could convince herself. It was either that or death. They might not make it tomorrow, but without Morrigan's ritual one of them would die for sure. Was it so wrong that she didn't want to die? And she didn't want him to, either.

The door creaked and she jerked, wiping her face on her tunic sleeve again. She knew it was Alistair before she saw the glow of his hair in the torch light or heard his footsteps. His hair was wet and his shirt damp, like he'd tried to scrub away the witch's touch.

Guilt flooded her. She hung her head miserably, hating herself for vulnerability. She heard him moving around the room without a word, until the pair of boots in her vision paused, and a hand brushed through her hair. He knelt before her.

"Eilin?"

He was smiling, she noted with surprise; a wry, lopsided smile, but a smile nonetheless. Not the anger she'd been expecting. And he was quiet, fingers carding through her hair and brushing her face, wiping away the wetness on her cheeks.

"Eilin, please don't cry."

The tears came faster; his tone wrenched at her guilt, made her stomach churn and her expression crumble. She clutched at him, hiding her face in his neck. His arms tightened around her.

Eventually she pulled back, wiping her face on her sleeve and feeling extraordinarily pathetic.

"Feel better?" he asked, still with that lopsided smile, and she nodded. He sat on the bed and began to remove his boots, and she watched him quietly.

"It's done," he continued after a few minutes. "The ritual, I mean. I did it."

"Thank you."

He flinched slightly as she touched his back, and glanced over his shoulder.

"Yes, well, no need for that. I just hope it was worth it."

Eilin nodded; for what else was there to say? She lay back down and watched him undress without a word. Eventually he climbed into the bed and turned with his back to her.

She felt the tears rising again. It was stupid, and she was being completely selfish. She'd asked Alistair to do the ritual - no, she'd pressured him into it, and it wasn't even her that had to suffer the consequences.

_I should have just taken the blow_, she thought miserably. She stared at his back, at the lines of muscle and scars she knew as well as her own, and wondered if this was what victory was supposed to feel like.


	22. Reunion

"Is it always like this?" Alistair whispered as a merchant in gaudy robes bowed and left the dais.

The throne room was packed full of people from all over the country: merchants, minor nobles, ambassadors - she spotted what looked like an Orlesian noble and at least one dwarf - and even a few elves.

"When you hold court, yes," Eilin replied. "Though I imagine most people just want to see their new king."

"It's the shiny crown, right? It makes me look pretty."

Laughing, she gazed over the sea of faces, trying to pick out people she knew. She recognised Arl Bryland's daughter whispering to a few finely dressed noblewomen, and a pale and wan Arlessa Isolde. Her heart lifted for a split second when she caught a flash of dark auburn hair in the crowd, but she pushed it away. Fergus was dead, and she'd resigned herself to that a long time ago. But she'd hoped maybe, with the Blight over...

"Who's next?" she asked the seneschal.

The man stepped forward and began to unroll the parchment in his hand, and she turned away, catching Alistair's eyes. He looked almost as bored as she was - well, maybe bored was a little too simple a description. She'd spent the last week in bed recovering, and her wounds itched under their bandages, and she needed sunlight. But more than that, the city was half in ruins and needed rebuilding. Corpses in collapsed houses and on the streets meant disease, and thousands of injured people needed aid. And here they were playing at being king and queen.

"Lord Fergus Cousland of Highever."

An utter silence fell over the dais as the gaze of a half dozen people turned on the seneschal. Eilin heard the name like a whisper in her ear, her fingers pausing the rhythmic tapping on her chair. She glanced at Alistair and some part of her mind noted how unsurprised he seemed. Denial took up the rest of her thoughts.

_Someone's forgotten who I am_, she thought, brow furrowing. _There was some sort of mistake, or it was a joke. A very poor joke._

But there was a man approaching the dais from the crowd and, oh, she recognised that hair and the smile that looked so like Father's.

The man dropped to one knee on the dais. Heart in her mouth, Eilin stared at him, studying him, trying to find what the trick was. Battered armour, a glint of grey hair at his temples, shadows under his eyes-he looked like a man who'd been through a great deal in a short amount of time.

"Rise," Alistair said a little hesitantly and glanced at Eilin, whose eyes followed the man's every movement.

"Your Majesty," Fergus murmured, like he appeared out of nowhere everyday. "Lady Cousland."

Hands shaking, Eilin rose from her chair. Tall as she was, Fergus towered over her, and it was like they were back in Highever again - him grinning like a boy, eyes dancing like this was all just a big joke.

"I was a little surprised when I heard my sister was not only a Grey Warden, but leading Ferelden into battle," he said, the grin turning into a smirk. "The stories didn't say anything about you helping to rule the entire country as well."

When she could finally trust herself to speak, her voice was hoarse. "How?"

Fergus's smile faded slightly. "Wounded. My scouting party was attacked by darkspawn, and I lost all of my men."

"I see."

Conscious of every pair of eyes in the hall on them, Eilin turned to Alistair, who rose from his chair.

"This is Fergus," she told him, the tremble in her voice betraying her. "My brother. And this...this is Alistair. My...betrothed."

Fergus's eyebrows rose, and he shot a glance at Alistair. "You didn't tell me about that part."

"I had other things on my mind."

Eilin shot an incredulous look between them, and slowly the surprise turned into a frown.

"I see."

"It's a long story," Fergus said, looking sheepish. "I can explain. Really."

"Oh, I'm sure you can." Smiling, Eilin turned to Alistair. "Would you excuse me? I think my brother and I need to have a long talk. And then you and I need to have a long talk."

Alistair had the grace to look abashed. "Of course." He squeezed her hand briefly before moving back to the throne. She looped her arm around Fergus's and lead him off the dais.

"Out of all the men to pick," he whispered in her ear as they exited the throne room. "You would pick a king, wouldn't you?"

Her laughter echoed off the high beams in the corridor, and she shook her head as the doors closed behind them.


	23. Inescapable

The ability to adapt to her situation had served her very well in the past year. One could call it a coping mechanism, but it was more than that - Eilin simply knew that her survival depended on flexibility of several kinds, and above all things she wanted to survive.

In just a few moments, Riordan had turned that upside down.

She and Alistair had listened in silence, and she was almost unsurprised when he told them how to kill an archdemon. Then with one reply, her fate was sealed.

"What did you say?"

Alistair looked bewildered; she would have felt sorry for him if she wasn't focused on keeping her composure.

"You needn't be in such a hurry to sacrifice your life," Riordan replied. "I am the senior Grey Warden. If possible, it should fall to me to make that final blow."

But the idea had already settled itself in Eilin's mind, so she ignored the hope his assurance brought her.

"But if you don't," she said steadily. "If you can't - then -"

Riordan nodded, his face set in a grim expression.

"Eilin ...what..." Alistair looked back and forth between them. Eilin couldn't meet his eyes; his dawning realisation hurt to see.

"You should get some sleep," Riordan said. Perhaps he sensed the forthcoming outburst, or maybe he noticed the way Eilin drew into herself.

She could feel Alistair's eyes on the back of her head as they left the room, but she kept walking until he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. He stepped back, startled when she jerked.

"Sorry. I just - I want to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about," she said softly.

"There is," Alistair insisted, and he turned her to face him. "Please just let me - you said you would kill the archdemon, even after what Riordan said. Did I hear you right? Tell me I misheard you."

"Someone's got to do it." She scrubbed her face with her sleeve, blinking wearily, and shook her head. "I need to sleep. We're supposed to be up before dawn."

"I don't understand," Alistair said in an undertone. "Why would you do this? I thought we were going to be - you said you would - "

"You are the king," she replied, wearily. "I'm a Grey Warden. This is how it has to be."

"_No!_" he said furiously. "You always say that. I don't care if the Landsmeet made me king - you think I'd honestly - that I would stand by and -"

"It's not a matter of you letting me," Eilin said sharply. "If I have to die to end this cursed Blight, then that's what I have to do. You knew it could have happened any time, why are you getting upset about it now?"

"Eilin - "

"Alistair, please! Just drop it!"

His face fell. Eilin closed her eyes, took a shuddering breath, and tried to compose herself as best she could.

"I need to think," she said, and turned away.

"Wait - " Alistair made to grab her hand, but she wrenched it out of his grip.

_"Don't!"_

She fled the hallway and went out onto the balcony overlooking the back of the castle. The air smelled of smoke and rain, and the wind cut right through her tunic, raising gooseflesh on her arms. She didn't care. She lifted her face to the sky and closed her eyes, and wondered how it would feel to die.

"Lady Cousland?"

Her overwrought nerves got the better of her and she jerked, even as she recognised the voice.

Teagan quickly moved into the light, holding up a hand in a gesture of reassurance.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's alright," Eilin said and turned back to the view.

"I passed Alistair in the hall," Teagan continued. He leaned against the balcony next to her and stared at the village below, swathed in darkness broken only by the fires lit by the night's watch. "He seemed... unhappy. Is everything alright?"

She should have reassured him with a lie, or avoided the question entirely. It was easy enough to convince someone who already believed in you. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"How high a price is too high to pay to end the Blight?" She asked after a long silence. "Would there be any sacrifice too great?"

Teagan glanced at her suspiciously, but replied, "None, of course. If we don't take back Denerim, the entire country will soon fall."

"That's what I thought," Eilin said, as steadily as she could manage. "Thank you."

Teagan's gaze raked over her one more time. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Oh, yes." Eilin turned away to hide the twist of her mouth, and made for the door. "I'm just tired."

She paused at the door to Alistair's room, but her courage failed her before she could open it.

There was nothing to say. It seemed pointless to placate him with reassurances. If she weren't so determined to put on a brave face, she would be asking for a few herself.

_He'll be alright,_ she told herself. _He will find a queen to rule beside him, and in time he will forget me._ Though her gut twisted with grief, she left the door untouched.

She knew someone was in her room before she even entered. The door was ajar, a shadow moving across the floor, and she was unarmed.

Eilin swept open the door with her foot, frowning at the sight of the familiar silhouette.

"Morrigan," she said, her voice cracking in surprise. "Is everything alright?"


End file.
